


Appoggiatura

by Alais, Guzmanasol



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Band Break Up, M/M, Original Character(s), background Mitch/Dylan, persuasion au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alais/pseuds/Alais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guzmanasol/pseuds/Guzmanasol
Summary: From the Italianappoggiare, “to lean upon.” The appoggiatura is often used to convey emotional yearning.Connor and Jack broke up. So did Major. Only one break up made TMZ and E!, and it's not the one that continues to haunt Jack.





	1. Transposition

**Author's Note:**

> Transposition: to write or play music in some key other than the original.

“You’re looking a little puffy,” Diego notes, dropping a to-go cup in front of Lottie. She reaches for it with a happy squeak, the ginger and honey scent wafting from it a dead giveaway. “Rough session last night?”

The ginger is warming, the honey soothing, the warmth of the cup bringing feeling back to her fingers, and she basks in the perfection of it all before replying. “Rough, but you know how it is.”

He does. It’s difficult to describe, even to others in the industry, the twining of utter and complete exhaustion and exhilaration. Of feeling like every emotion has been forcibly dragged from your body and made into sound and light. Of making words on a page and notes from the music into pure physical form, with life and magic all of their own. As an artist, it’s not uncommon to come out the other side changed, perhaps a shadow of one’s former self or something more. It all depends on the song of course, but changed nonetheless.

It takes a special person to help with that process, to be the one guiding the way. Lottie isn’t sure she could do it, doesn’t think Diego or Ryder could either, though Charlie might be able to in a few years. She’s not sure how Jack can stand pushing them through it day after day. It’s draining to witness, worse to be part of, and he does it every day, far away from the spotlight that used to be a part of his everyday life.

“They’re just going to say he made one of us cry. Again.”

Lottie snorts. “They can just fuck off. They’re not there, they don’t know what he’s actually like.”

Because despite Jack’s reputation of making Lyme artists and collaborators cry, he’s actually not a dick. Well, not  _ entirely _ a dick. He keeps it out of the studio at least, which is more than Lottie can say for certain other people the label has made her work with.

Jack just has a few quirks when it comes to studio work. He’s intense all of the time, which is fine because they’re all music nerds, they know how it works. Mostly he’s just intensely skillful, eloquent like a conductor in the way he coaches someone through a song. He keeps copious notes - his studio (both at the Lyme building and in his own house) is always overflowing with notebooks of lyrics and binders of sheet music, highlighted and annotated to here and back. Lottie had threatened to color code all of his work once, bored on a slow night when Jack was trying to rearrange some of his stuff to work acoustically. Jack just looked at her for a long moment before he started cackling with laughter. 

“Kiddo you couldn’t make sense of half of what I’ve written.” 

“You’re not  _ that  _ much older than me,” she’d grumbled.

He ruffled her hair. “Still a kid. Come on, drink more tea and get back in the booth.”

That’s Jack most of the time. Demanding, sure. A perfectionist, yes. But pretty reasonable and normal by most other people’s standards.

Then there are times when he just  _ changes _ . Becomes someone whose eyes seem to look through you in the glass, like he’s not actually seeing you but someone else entirely. Those are the times when he’s a little darker, more intense. Like he’s going to physically drag every ounce of that song from your soul if it’s the last thing he does, and he doesn’t care how he achieves it. 

Being in the studio with him during those times can be draining at best and a nightmare at worst, but Lottie has compared notes with some of other people who’d been assigned to Jack- the consensus is that those are the times when they record the rawest, most emotional versions. The songs that make people cry when they listen to the album. 

It’s easy get the wrong idea when artists stumble out after those sessions, like Jack’s in there yelling or threatening or forcing take after take after take. Well, the latter is sometimes true. The former, not so much. It’s given him something of a reputation - not at Lyme so much but with other labels - most of it uncomplimentary. “Diva,” they hear a lot. “Difficult,” if someone is being more diplomatic, and “one hell of a bitch” if not. Jack doesn’t care, the higher-ups at Lyme don’t care, so the rest of them, the artists at Lyme who are close to him, just follow along.

They’re pretty protective of him, though. “I just don’t get it,” Diego muses, his gaze traveling through the sliding glass doors to where Jack is pacing around the kitchen. He’s clearly not thrilled with the conversation he’s having, face getting red and running a hand through his hair constantly. It would be entertaining to watch if Lottie and Diego aren’t supposed to be recording with him in an hour. 

“Don’t get what?”

“Why he isn’t more successful, doing more of his own solo stuff. His voice is just-” He shakes his head. They’re close to Jack now, not as intimidated when they first met him, but that starstruck feeling still creeps up from time to time. “It’s probably better now than it ever was when he was in Major. And his songs are so great but he turns most of them over to us, or to Dylan.”

She’s always wondered that too. Most of the time he’s the one on the demo (and she is really fucking jealous of his vocal range) and even there, on a stripped down little track with minimal accompaniment, usually just a piano or guitar, his voice just  _ soars.  _ It gives her chills. Lottie has a hidden folder of all of the demos she’s managed to scrounge up, as well as digital files of the Major albums, scratch tracks, the handful of features Jack did when he was still with Sewickley. She listens to them almost obsessively sometimes, and tries to understand how the universe is so screwed up that someone with this talent isn’t front and center and the shining star of this label. “Or with other groups,” she adds. “Since he just got back from working with that one group in Korea.”

Diego nods. “Oh yeah. I heard they’re supposed to come over here to wrap up some of that stuff.”

“Really?” That’ll be a first. But then, flying overseas to work with a Korean pop group is also a first and if they don’t quite comprehend it in terms of Jack’s career trajectory, well, that’s just one more thing they can just chalk up as one of his odd little quirks. Little is probably an understatement - Jack Eichel doesn’t do anything by halves.

She’s tried asking Mitch about it, one of the rare times he’s actually around Lyme studios to record a song or two with Dylan. They’ve been a part of the same group since they were teenagers, surely he has some insight, but all Mitch does is laugh kindly, change the subject, and drag them out for lunch or coffee or both. “Jack is Jack,” is the most she’s ever been able to get out of him, which is frustrating as hell. Especially since Mitch has no problem monologuing about Dylan for seven minutes at a time. Charlie timed him once, convinced that Lottie was indulging in hyperbole-- the official time was actually seven minutes, eighteen seconds. 

They’ve discussed Mitch’s reticence about Jack, her and Charlie and Diego and Ryder. If maybe part of it has to do with Connor McDavid, and the way that Jack is so very careful not to mention him,  _ ever _ . Oh sure, he talks  _ around _ him in the vauguest sense when they ask about his Major days, but it’s a gaping hole in the conversation that none of them have the courage to bring up. They value their lives too much.

“Yeah.” Diego’s face lights up and he pulls out his phone, scooting over so that he’s beside her on the lounger. “Speaking of, did you see all those Insta Live things recorded of him when he was there?”

“What? No! Show me.” Sure enough, there’s Jack eating street food, some type of rice cakes in a fiery crimson sauce that makes his face turn the same color, making him sputter while delighted laughter rings out in the background.There’s a woman next to him, smacking his back and gesturing at someone out of sight for something. A few seconds later, a hand is putting a drink in front of Jack and he chugs it down fast enough to impress any frat boy. 

He gets progressively drunker in the following videos, moving from a restaurant with a truly dizzying amount of food to one of those karaoke room places that Lottie’s been dying to try at some point. In the last video he’s well and truly gone, stripped down to a white shirt that hugs his body lovingly, every inch of exposed skin flushed red with alcohol and adrenaline. His eyes are half-lidded and he’s swaying a little in place, his hair standing up in tufts because he keeps running his fingers through it. The muted reds and purples of the lighting in the room are doing him all sorts of favors, and Lottie is almost too distracted by appreciating the view to realise what else is going on. Almost, but not quite. Because Jack’s singing, and Lottie would have to be dead to ignore that.

It’s the song he’s singing that grabs her attention and doesn’t let go, though, because it’s one of  _ Connor McDavid’s  _ songs. Jack only ever talks about Connor’s music if some interviewer brings it up, and those are few and far between because he does so few media appearances anymore. He’s always coolly appreciative, always ready with something intelligent and thoughtful about the lyrics and the composition. Otherwise, it’s just one of those things everyone at Lyme knows better than to bring up in his presence.

But this song...oh god, it’s “Turning Tables,” one of the sweeping ballads from Connor’s first album, full of the kind of heartbreak that makes you want to run headlong into a wall just to get it to stop hurting. He performed it at the Grammys the year that album came out (with three nominations and three wins, on top of it) and absolutely everyone, in every single audience reaction shot was bawling as he sang. Lottie remembers watching it from Lyme’s lobby with Charlie, both of them positively weeping and ruining their makeup, back before they’d fully embraced waterproof mascara. 

And Jack  _ matches  _ it. The hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up as he throws himself into it, eyes clamped shut and cradling the microphone like it’s going to shatter in his hands at any moment. There’s this odd quality to his voice as he simply takes the song and makes it his own, as if it’s his own heartbreak he’s singing about and not someone else’s. Or maybe, she dares to think, it’s  _ their  _ heartbreak. Even with the vaguely terrible video quality his voice shines through, the soaring runs and the twists in dynamics that push and pull at her emotions until she doesn’t know what way is up anymore.

The video cuts off right as the song ends, and Lottie is torn between the desire to watch it again and the urge to lay on the ground and sob. She settles for looking at Diego, and feels only slightly better to find he’s also blinking back tears. 

A shadow falls over them and they both rocket upwards to find Jack, arms crossed and brow furrowed, expression otherwise neutral.

And that’s it, they’re probably going to die because Jack just caught them watching him drunkenly sing along to Connor McDavid and  _ kill it _ , but that’s not the point because it’s Connor McDavid. “Uh,” she begins, scrambling for any excuse.

“Uh,” Diego says at the same time, deathly pale beneath his tan.

Jack just watches them both for a moment, then shakes his head and sighs. There’s a weight to it, a sort of resignation that makes Lottie feel oddly guilty. “Damn it, Amber,” he mutters. “Well, I hope you guys enjoyed me making a fool of myself. Come on, there’s food inside, you’re going to need it for this afternoon.”

Lottie doesn’t whimper. She’s very proud of that, because there’s an ominous note to Jack’s statement that does not bode well for either of them. Diego nods and follows Jack inside, leaving Lottie to trail in after them. Even with remorse eating away at her, she makes a note to hunt down a copy of that video later.

Music like that deserves to be heard.


	2. Phrase Elision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phrase Elision: when the last note of one phrase serves as first note of the next phrase.

_September 2018_  
  
“You fell asleep in here again?” Connor’s voice is light, more amused than surprised. Jack’s always been able to sleep anywhere, and when it comes to writing for the next album he’s exhausted enough to not fight it.  
  
“Mmmmmf?” Jack blinks, the muscles in his neck and back complaining as he straightens up from his hunched position over his desk. Well. That explains a lot. His hands come away from his face smudged with ink.  
  
Connor snorts fondly and reaches out, fingers gentle as he combs through Jack’s hair. “All these new toys and you forget all about us, eh?”  
  
He can’t help the way his eyes stray to the music strewn all over the desk, biting back some sort of stupid statement like, “how can I forget about you when you’re right here?” And that was the crux of it - Connor had said “us”, like Jack had been consumed by thinking about Mitch or Dylan. Jack almost wants to laugh, because it’s ludicrous - like either of them could muster up a tenth of Connor’s hold on Jack and his attention, his heart and mind.  
  
It’s all he’s able to write about these days and it’s such a cliche, a musician writing about love, but he can’t help it. The words just seem to pour out of him, words soft and sweet and roaring and passionate, anything to try and describe the way he feels. Melodies come too, trying to evoke the sensation of fingers tangled together, hopes and fears for a future together.  
  
And because Connor is Connor, who has an uncanny sense about everything to do with Jack, he catches it. “Ah,” he murmurs, lips curving into a small, secret smile that Jack wants to preserve forever within a song. He can almost hear it now, something with winds which is something they’ve never tried but now he wants to and he needs to write this down before it flits away-  
  
“Jack.” A hand closes over his wrist and he half expects a demand to stop and he braces for it, so ready to fight because this is what he needs and- “Show me?”

But he forgets. This is Connor, and Connor knows him. Connor knows what it is to be consumed by the possibilities in his head, to have them overwhelm everything else. “Yeah,” he murmurs, relaxing. “Yeah. Um. Hand me my guitar.”  
  
The song is not quite finished, but the bones of it are there, starting soft but swiftly building, the melody inextricably tied with the sentiment of being at the start of something wonderful. Jack has a moment of hesitation before he starts, because it’s unfinished and still has only a roughed out idea of a bridge - and he’s vulnerable in it. He tends to hoard his songs, tucks them away to be worked on and edited and tweaked until sharing them doesn’t quite feel like cutting open his chest and letting everyone see his heart. It’s Connor, though, it’s Connor with the steady hands and the quiet voice and Jack trusts him to see him vulnerable.  
  
When the song finishes, all he sees is the brightness in Connor’s eyes as he lifts the guitar away and slides into his lap. Jack’s hands are twitchy, helping keep Connor balanced in there because he knows that look and its promises. He wants whatever Connor is willing to give and he wants it now. Connor keeps a hand on Jack’s shoulder and lets one tangle into Jack’s hair and finally kisses him like Jack’s wanted him to since he woke up. His kiss crescendos like the song, building and building until they’re completely lost in the strength of it all.

Until Dylan bangs on the door. “Hey lovebirds!” he yells. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing in there, but we have half an hour before we have to leave for that radio thing.”  
  
“I hate your friends,” Jack mutters. Dylan and Mitch have a sense for when Jack and Connor are together and not actually working, and are prime targets to be interrupted. It’s a miracle that there’s been no moment yet where they were caught with their pants down.  
  
“They’re your friends too buddy.” And Connor is smirking at him because Jack does actually count Mitch and Dylan as his friends. He’s gone on record about it, a drunk Instagram live where he chewed out Noah for sticking with hockey and not guitar because then Jack’s life would be perfect: music, all of his friends, people who actually relate to their songs. But even a few too many drinks deep, Jack knew enough to not mention Connor. Connor who is friend and boyfriend and partner in everything. That’s not for the internet to know.  
  
Connor climbs out of Jack’s lap and Jack shivers at the lack of warmth. The studio runs cold, and last night’s shirt was fine while he was outside in the late September warmth but not now. Jack watches Connor head for the door and hauls himself out of his chair with a groan. If he’s lucky, it’ll be Matt riding herd on them today. He’s always got ibuprofen and band-aids in the car because Mila is fearless, and that spills over into the company vehicles. If it’s Biz, then that’s also fine because Biz will just roll with it, as he does with everything, and can be persuaded to swing by Starbucks on the way to the radio station.  
  
If it’s Monroe, then he’s just going to ignore him. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t spoken a direct word to their third and most uptight manager since he was eighteen. He’s so obviously in Bettman’s pocket, ready to tattle on Jack or the others doing the slightest thing that’s not part of the Plan™. The strategy had been necessary when they signed the deal were trying to stand out from the other bands on the market, but they’re three years in and most of it is irrelevant. Jack has a countdown on his phone for the end of the tour that’ll come after they finish this album and mark the end of their contract. One last album, one last tour, and then moving on to a label that doesn’t give a shit about what Jack does outside of the studio.  
  
God, he can’t wait.  
  
They’ve been so careful. They’ve slowly been wrangling more and more control over their albums. This third one is all them, writing, composing, and even a little producing. The song lyrics are all gender neutral, a slow but subtle transition if anyone’s bothering to pay attention. It just needs a little more time and a little more patience and while that’s usually not his style, he recognizes the importance of doing this right.  
  
For him. For Connor. For what they can be.  
  
When he finally makes it outside, it’s Matt’s car parked in the driveway. Dylan and Mitch are already inside, and Connor’s holding the door open for him.  
  
“Eichs!” Dylan chirps. “You hear about the snake they found in the lobby at Sewickley?”  
  
“Fuckin’ Florida,” he grumbles, falling right into the trap as he slumps against the window. “Why are we based in a state where the wildlife is constantly trying to kill me?”  
  
“Not the iguana thing again,” Matt groans as he puts the car in drive.  
  
Jack sits up straight, indignant. “Yes, the iguana thing again! It launched itself at my head. The damn thing clearly wanted to eat my face!”  
  
“You should’ve let it, it would’ve been a cheaper way to fix your face than going to LA for plastic surgery,” Mitch chimes in with that stupid shit-eating grin of his. Jack gropes around the backseat for something to throw at Mitch up front while Dylan cackles next to him and Connor watches them from the other side. Jack settles for an old setlist waded up into a ball and nails Mitch in the back of the head. Matt groans wordlessly and if Jack could see him, he’d be rolling his eyes.  
  
The interview with the local iHeartradio station isn’t terrible, with a familiar host who never asks the same old questions. They’re out and blinking in the Florida sunshine within an hour. Matt’s hustling them to the parking lot because they’ve got more press today - a Fuse interview, behind-the-scenes to film for their YouTube page, and then dinner with a writer from Billboard who’s getting an early listen to a few of the new album tracks. A tame day, really, because they actually have time to eat full meals and will get a full night’s sleep.  
  
Connor falls into step with Jack as they trail after Mitch and Dylan, quiet now that no one is looking to him to be the face. Connor’s said once or twice that he doesn’t mind being the spokesperson, he just wishes that it wasn’t the default when Jack and Dylan do so much of the songwriting for their recent stuff. Jack shifts a step over, gently rams his shoulder into Connor’s.  
  
“You’re thinking too loud bud.” Connor rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Jack doesn’t know how to explain how much he loves being able to pull Connor out of his head, isn’t sure he’d want to share how giddy and powerful that makes him feel.  
  
It’s just...it’s special. And he’s pretty damn sure he’s never going to feel this way about anyone, ever again.

* * *

 

_Present_

 

  


 

  
When Connor left Major, Jack wouldn’t say that his world ended. That’s a bit overdramatic, even for him. Still, it changed him, changed everything in ways he’s still not ready to admit to, even to this day. It’s the point that splits his life into Before and After. Jack doesn’t let himself think about Before too much, has made that mistake before and damn near destroyed himself doing it. He’s better, he is, and now he knows not to do that again.  
  
Still, when Connor skates - he doesn’t even do something as normal as step, he has to fucking skate - back into Jack’s life, it plays out exactly as hokey and hackneyed as he expects. He’s utterly and completely aware the very first second that two of them glide onto the ice together. In one heart-stopping moment, it’s like the entire arena goes silent, everything around them fading to grey while the two of them light up with blinding Technicolor.  
  
That’s Connor, Jack thinks, lips twisting wryly. The most deceptive hurricane he’s ever met, chaos and change wrapped in a politely Canadian shell. Despite everything, despite the heaviness he carries around with him, the bitterness and the anger and the gut-wrenching agony, he can feel his heart beating faster, his eyes automatically searching for Connor across the ice.  
  
It’s not like their paths haven’t crossed since Major split up and their relationship crumbled, to put it kindly. The music industry is too small a world for them to go all melodramatic and refuse to be in the same room, awards shows, and after parties. It’s just that there’s normally a buffer, some newbie PR assistant with him or with Connor with strict orders to keep them apart. Even at the more casual events, where Mari doesn’t make Jack take one of her underlings, there’s generally a dozen or more other people who want Connor’s attention, and a handful who aren’t intimidated by Jack who’ll approach him about whatever project they want him involved with. They have none of that on ice: it’s just them, as close as they’ve been in at least half a dozen years, with a few thousand people watching and waiting.  
  
At least someone at the NHL had the presence of mind to put Connor and Dylan together on Team Selanne, and Jack and Mitch together on Team Kariya. Otherwise, he’s pretty sure the Honda Center would be a smoking hole in the ground right about now.  
  
“Is everything going to be okay?” Mitch asks him, for once utterly and completely serious.  
  
Jack scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s a bit late to be asking that now, don’t you think?”  
  
“Don’t be an asshole, at least I’m asking, rather than trying to lock you two into a closet so that you can resolve your shit.”  
  
“Wouldn’t have worked then, definitely won’t work now.” But he bites his lip, looks down at the ground, and sighs before reaching out to pat his shoulder. He and Mitch give each other a lot of shit, but Mitch did everything humanly possible to drag Jack out of the wreckage when everything imploded. When Jack wouldn’t leave the studio, it was Mitch who would leave blankets, bottles of water and food, and cleaning up the mess. He worked with Matt to run interference with the label, and since the third album had been all but finished, they really had no need to bother him anyway.  
  
So. He’s grateful, even though he’ll never admit it. And it’s fine, because Mitch knows it too.  
  
“I don’t know.” Mitch is going through a stickhandling routine that looks deceptively easy, his movements sure and confident. More than a few of the retirees on their team are looking their way with mingled surprise and, dare he say, a touch of envy.  
  
Sure enough, they’re both pulled over for an interview. “You guys are really good,” Kathryn Tappen exclaims, as beautiful as ever. Jack had had a crush on her for years growing up, and he’s not sure he ever really grew out of it. “How excited are you for the game?”  
  
“Oh, we’re incredibly excited,” Jack replies, leaning against the boards. That's chill, he can do this. If everyone just sticks to hockey it’ll all be fine.  
  
“We’re thinking of it as an exercise in what might have been,” Mitch chimes in, leaning on his stick and grinning lazily.  
  
“That’s right, all of you played in juniors - except you, Jack, but you were in the USNTDP. Do you guys ever think about what would have happened if you’d pursued hockey rather than music?”  
  
This is too good an opportunity to pass up. “Hanny wouldn’t have gone first overall, that’s for sure,” he drawls, knowing full well that Noah is going to kill him for that. Mitch chokes. Kathryn laughs before getting pulled away to interview the team captains. Across the ice and through the glass, Noah’s staring at Jack like he knows he was being talked about. Jack smiles his biggest shit-eating grin back at him, knowing it’ll only piss him off more.  
  
Still, he can’t piss him off too much. Noah’s his main buffer during this shitshow of a weekend and he’s really not above using him as a human shield if necessary.  
  
Jack needs that. There’s a reason why he avoids Connor as much as possible and he’s forcibly reminded of it now as the urge to look across the ice gets stronger and stronger. There’s always been a pull between them, some Jane Eyre string and heart nonsense Jack was sure didn’t exist. Until Connor, of course.  
  
Even when everything went to shit, at every awards show and music festival Jack knew that if he tugged on that thread, it would eventually lead him to Connor. Before, he never hesitated to follow it because it led to Connor. Now, in the After, he lets it stretch farther and farther, knowing that one day it will eventually snap.  
  
He doesn’t want to dwell on how it’s going to feel when it finally does.  
  
Just once, he tells himself, and allows himself to look over at the other end of the ice where Team Selanne is practicing. He and Dylan are attached at the hip, as usual, standing off to the side and joking with the Finnish Flash himself.  
  
And it’s strange, but when he turns his head it’s as if Connor does too. Like he’s been watching him across the ice and didn’t want to be caught in the act.  
  
But that’s absurd. Connor has no reason to look his way, not anymore. Years ago, he had hundreds, thousands of reasons to, the string between them constantly pulling Connor’s gaze towards him like Jack was the center of his universe. It was an overwhelming feeling and he hadn’t been able to figure it out at first, when they first met. He’d thought that Connor didn’t like him, resented him for coming into the band when it belonged to him and Dylan and Mitch first.  
  
He’d been wrong, of course, utterly and completely wrong and none of that mattered. Not when he had Connor and music, all tangled in his life and in his head until he couldn’t separate Connor and music - or he thought he couldn’t. He knows better now.  
  
Now music is all he has and he’s suddenly furious with himself for looking at Connor and wondering if, for some impossible reason, Connor’s actually looking back. If he’s looking his way for any reason, it’s probably with the same sort of questions everyone else has: what the hell has Jack Eichel been doing after Major split up? Why hasn’t he done anything big, why has he become such a has-been? On his worst nights, he’ll google his own name and skim the results. Apparently he’s such a loser that he doesn’t even merit inclusion on the “tragic celebs who died too young” or “where are they now - one hit wonders” clickbait lists.  
  
Jack knows none of these things are true. He knows what he’s done, what he’s doing, and damn it, he’s happy with all of it. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

Especially Connor. Who is definitely looking at Jack now, his gaze cool and hard in a way it never, ever was before. It’s piercing and weighted and for a moment he feels absolutely trapped beneath the weight of everything they were, everything said and unsaid. Dylan’s mouth is pinched as he watches Connor watching Jack, and Jack has no doubt that Mitch is trying to juggle the puck so aggressively so he doesn’t have to watch the trainwreck.  
  
Jack entertains the idea of skating over and asking Connor what he’s staring at for one brief, self-destructive moment before looking away. The Richter scale doesn’t go high enough to measure the magnitude of Jack being that impulsive, that self-destructive. The trapped feeling dissipates, leaving him feeling itchy and ready to lash out. He looks away, face burning, trying to find Noah to stare at again but the jerk is gone.  
  
Instead, there’s Matt, Alicia, and the kids - the rest of Ellsworth included. Mila’s waving a sign that sheds glitter with every movement, and he’s really glad she hasn’t grown out of that phase. Lottie, Charlie, and Ryder are also toting signs, one that says GO JACK and another that says GO DIEGO. Mitch makes an affronted noise and skates over to the glass, waving his arms and demanding why there isn’t a sign for him. It lifts Jack’s heart a little bit, and that’s one check in the “good things” column he’s compiling.  
  
It’ll probably be the only one he gets this weekend. It’s good to be around hockey, but Jack isn’t sure being so close to Connor for a weekend is going to turn out to be anything other than a disaster. Mari hadn’t said anything when the NHL reached out about being here, and Jack kind of wished she had. He’s not too proud to hide behind his publicist.  
  
The first few shifts on the ice are fine; great, even. He doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to go out on the ice even now, just the odd time or two when he and Mitch and Dylan rent out a rink because they miss it too much. Or when he’s home for Christmas because the pond behind his parents’ house always freezes over and Jessie is always game to indulge him because she loves kicking his ass.  
  
Jack has always felt the most comfortable at the piano, or with a guitar in hand, but the ice is a close second. For a split second, he wonders if he’s about to make an ass of himself on national tv but all that doubt melts away quickly because he was good at hockey, good enough to get into the USNTDP.  
  
He’s good here too, steady and smooth on his skates, no fumbling with the puck, and even some damn good passes between his teammates. The tension from earlier flows out of him and he even begins to enjoy himself because it’s _hockey._  
  
Then Connor steps onto the ice. If the prickling along the back of his neck isn’t enough of a give away, the noise in the stands is. Jack tries deep breathing, tries counting to ten, but he can’t relax enough to let go of the death grip he has on his stick. He’s not surprised by the noise because the crowds have always been loudest for Connor.  
  
He is surprised by how quickly Connor engages him, the two of them battling for possession of the puck. The noise level from the audience notches up even higher when they realize what’s happening, that the celebrity game narrows down to a contest between the two of them.  
  
Here’s the thing: Jack wasn’t lying when he told Kathryn Tappen that Noah wouldn’t have gone first overall had Major chosen hockey over music. It pains him to admit it, and he’ll never acknowledge it out loud, but he knows with bone deep certainty that Connor would have gone first. Connor, who is infuriatingly good at everything he sets his mind to and then proceeds to work for it, honing pure talent into undeniable skill. It drove him crazy then, and it drives him crazy now, especially when Connor steals the puck away from him again.  
  
“Having a little trouble there, Eichs?” It sounds friendly on the surface, but then it has to, because Connor’s mic'd up. There’s a steely edge to it, as sharp and cutting as the blades on their feet that leaves Jack reeling a bit because that’s not Connor. Or that wasn’t Connor. Jack hasn’t spoken to him in years, though, so he’s forced to accept that this seething, stony man is Connor now. It hurts, and that ache just pisses Jack off further. He’s purged almost every part of Connor from his life, and the asshole comes back into it and decides to rub salt in his wounds. It distracts Jack, the hurt, just enough for Connor to get in that one extra stride he needs.  
  
All Jack can do is watch as he tears up the ice. It’s one hell of a shot, through the defenseman’s tripod and right past an unsuspecting goalie. No one sees it coming and the entire arena is stunned for a moment before the arena absolutely erupts.  
  
Connor flashes one brief, smug grin over his shoulder and any awe Jack feels at the play disappears under a wave of his previous fury. He wants to play? Fine.  
  
They’ll play.  
  
He gets his chance on their very next shift, concentrating the play around Team Selanne’s net. He’s always liked digging in around the net, combining his bulk, his speed, and his skill to create multiple opportunities to score. While Mitch creates havoc to the right, drawing defenders, he attempts to wrist the puck over the goalie, grabbing his own rebound from a lucky glove save. Connor’s on him in a flash, trying to get the puck before he makes another shot on goal but it’s too late.  
  
The puck sails into the net before the goalie processes it. Triumph runs hot in his veins, and Jack knows just how cocky and smug he looks as he turns to Connor. “Having a little trouble there, Davo?” he drawls, a mockery of that earlier chirp. There’s no time for more, because the rest of his team swarms him, whooping loudly.

Connor’s mouth flattens into a tight line and he skates off.  
  
Predictably, everything goes to hell. They shove each other in every subsequent shift, the contact becoming rougher and rougher, a far cry from the exuberant hug checks that everyone else is using.  
  
In hindsight, Jack should have seen the hit coming. There was no way they could keep clogging the air with that much animosity without someone snapping. One minute he’s up, chasing a dumped puck into a corner, the next he’s shoved into the boards hard enough to provoke gasps from the people behind the glass. Later, he sees the footage and it’s just plausible enough to claim that Connor lost an edge chasing him (and that’s exactly what he claims in the post-game interview), resulting in an unintended check.  
  
But Jack knows. He knows the exact amount of intention behind it and he can actually feel his temper snap. How dare he. How fucking dare Connor act like some petulant child now-  
  
Mitch skates into his path, “We’re coming off. Now.” He’s rarely so severe, face drawn and tight, that Jack responds automatically to the command, following him back to the bench. “Jack, what the hell is going on.”  
  
“He started it,” he manages through gritted teeth.  
  
“Are we children now?” Paul Kariya asks from over Mitch’s shoulder and Jack feels a flush of shame, because this man’s a legend. It’s a vicious cycle, the shame sparking his ever-simmering rage. This wouldn’t be an issue if they’d just kept on ignoring each other. “This is a family event, Eichel.”  
  
Mitch folds his arms, staring down Kariya. It would be a funny sight at any other time and Jack can find humor in many things, but not this. “They can’t be on the ice at the same time.”  
  
Jack has the feeling that over on the other bench, Dylan’s having a similar conversation with Selanne. Kariya just nods, sliding a far too assessing gaze over his way. “I have no problem with that. Eichel?”  
  
“Perfect,” Jack manages, and edges down to his spot. Guilt sparks beneath the churning anger and shame because yes, Connor started it and Connor’s the one acting out but it’s not like he got to that point by himself. Jack has his own part in this and for that, he has to take responsibility. He’s quiet on the bench, ignores the stares he can feel along his back from fans, pretends that he can’t see the cameras that keep circling between him, the action on ice, and Connor. This is fine, this is not a big deal unless he makes it into one. Unless Connor has lost his mind, he’ll lie about what happened in the interviews, Jack will do the same, and their publicists will squash the talk about this part of the weekend and redirect it to something harmless. Jack just needs to stay calm and play.  
  
Jack spends the rest of his ice time matched against Dylan, winning significantly more of his faceoffs than before. It soothes any lingering irritation to know that he still can do this right at least, and it isn’t long before he hug checks Diego just because he can. Diego’s been annoying Dylan all game by deliberately bumbling his passes, oftentimes sending them in the wrong direction. Jack is definitely a fan of anyone who gets under Dylan’s skin. He regrets it instantly when Diego decides that that gives him free reign to just cling to Jack, giving up all pretense of playing.  
  
“Leggo, you’re heavy,” Jack tells him. Diego laughs and ignores Jack. It’s not new for them, because the Ellsworth kids listen to him once in a blue moon, but Jack doesn’t have his normal patience. Not with so many people watching. He tries to shake Diego off, but can’t manage it because he’s clinging like a goddamn octopus.  
  
“Dude, shhh, let the adorable bonding and hero worship do their thing,” Diego tells him, hushed. If he starts talking about healing crystals and cleansing energy again, Jack is banning him from the studio for the rest of his life. As it is, Diego stays quiet but makes Jack skate him back to his bench and dump him into Dylan’s lap as the next shift goes out. Diego catches Jack’s eye and winks, head tilting back almost till it hits Dylan’s shoulder as he tries to subtly gesture towards the fans laughing as they record his antics.  
  
Jack clues in then, and tries to ignore the wounded pride that tells him he shouldn’t need a kid he’s mentored to help him with damage control. He fucked up, and Diego is helping him give fans something other than Jack and Connor to talk about. Jack’s not such an ass that he can’t recognize help when it’s being offered unasked, so he tries to muster up a smile. Judging by the face Dylan pulls back at him, it’s not the most convincing but it’s what Jack’s got.  
  
Back on his own bench, Jack tries to breathe deeply and unclench his hands. It’s easier than earlier, but it still takes work. Once he’s as calm as he’ll get, he risks a glance at the other bench. Dylan and Diego are both glancing back, and Jack tries to smile at them again. It hurts, like everything else today, but it must look more convincing because they both relax.  
  
Connor’s team wins with a late goal from someone Jack thinks might be an actor from the latest Star Trek, and Jack is spared most of the press after the game. Checking his phone is a chore, because there are three missed calls from Mari and the voicemails she’s left are harsh enough that Jack has to consciously think about relaxing his shoulders down from where he’s hunched them up. He’s still one of the first out of the locker room, and he starts making his way to the lounge that was set up before he realizes that he has no plans and is on his own for the rest of the night. Dylan and Mitch haven’t said anything, but who knows if they’re planning a date night, and Jack will rip out his tongue before he crashes that. Noah’s disappeared to who knows where, Connor is not an option, and Jack doesn’t really know any of the other guests here enough to just crash their plans. Maybe he could see what Matt’s up to, or the kids-  
  
“Dude hurry up, the bar everyone’s going to will get crazy busy soon, we need to haul ass to get a table that won’t get you mobbed,” Diego tells him, long legs making it easy to catch up to Jack and throw an arm around his shoulders. Diego lowers his voice and glances around at the hallway, empty except for them and a handful of interns, before murmuring, “I want to know what the fuck was going on today. Don’t make that face, I don’t need details, but there’s only so much I can help downplay when I don’t know what I’m supposed to be making into not a big deal.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Jack sighs, not bothering to throw Diego off. He probably does owe the kid dinner. Both for the mess he made today, and for the fact that he made Diego do ten extra takes last week of what will eventually be the lead single for Ellsworth’s sophomore album just because Diego had gotten his hands on old promo posters from Jack’s time in Major and covered Jack’s prefered studio at Lyme in them.  
  
Jack doesn’t get that chance to offer to buy dinner because someone is shouting his name down the hallway. When he turns, he sees it’s Connor, strangely intense as he bears down on where Jack and Diego are. Diego must feel Jack tense up because he squeezes Jack’s shoulder and doesn’t let go. Jack hopes that the interns have scattered already and missed this. The last fucking thing he needs is video of him and Connor screaming at each other in the hallway after the celebrity game to make it onto the internet.  
  
He’s completely unprepared, but then, how can anyone be prepared for a moment like this? It’s absurd but here he is, frozen in the hallway and staring into Connor’s eyes. Connor, the man he loved with no end or beginning.  
  
The man whose heart he broke.  
  
The man that walked away.  
  
Without the pads and the distraction of the game it’s easy to see how he’s changed. He’s grown into his features, the long face and the weird nose. The softness has melted away into sharper angles and deeper hollows. His frame, always lanky, is more solid now, filled out.  
  
This Connor is both familiar and unfamiliar at turns. Nevertheless, it’s still Connor and Jack’s heart still reacts the same, beating frantically in his chest like it’s trying to escape. To what purpose, he doesn’t know, but he squashes it down ruthlessly. “Good game, McDavid,” he says in a tone so utterly neutral that Diego sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You heading to the afterparty thing too?”  
  
It’s so relentlessly bland, so non-confrontational (and therefore so not Jack) that whatever head of steam Connor’s building up, completely disappears. “W-what?”  
  
“The afterparty,” he repeats, and nudges Diego. “Where is it supposed to be?”  
  
“Connor!” someone calls, back in the direction of Team Selanne’s locker room. It’s familiar too, but welcome because it’s Biz, also older but fundamentally the same. “Come on, you can’t do this, let’s just - Jack?”  
  
“Hey Biz.” That’s neutral, that’s chill. Jack isn’t going to cause a scene even if this is the first time in years that Biz has been close enough for Jack to see the gray in his hair. And that’s new, because the Biz Jack remembers had no gray hair and liked to give Matt so much shit about how much he had. The bitter part of Jack wants to make some snide comment about how stressful trying to humanize McBot to the world must be, give Biz a suggestion to invest in some hair dye like literally everyone over twenty-five in this industry. He doesn’t.  
  
“So, are you guys heading to the same afterparty? We were about to head over ourselves, and it’s an open invitation from Teemu,” Diego tells them and his grin hasn’t wavered the entire time they’ve been in this lounge. His grip on Jack’s shoulders contradicts all of the friendliness in his voice and face. Jack has the impression that Diego is trying to keep a good grip on Jack so he can stop him from doing something stupid. He’s sort of pissed off by that idea. If he hadn’t tried to kick Connor’s ass after he ditched Sewickley, broke their contract and unleashed an absolute shit show upon their professional lives in the form of Bettman and his attorneys, and after he’d broken Jack’s heart again and again and again...well. Jack isn’t going to punch him in some random hallway of the Honda Center at the fucking celebrity game of the All-Star weekend.  
  
“Yeah, we were,” Biz agrees, like everyone does when Diego smiles and asks them anything. “Gotta make sure this one doesn’t rot away in studio and socializes a bit.” He nudges Connor, who jerks like he’d been knocked out of his thoughts. Jack tries to ignore the way his stomach twists up at Biz’s comment, because he gave up being the person who looked after Connor so long ago that it’s utterly stupid to be jealous. Diego’s fingers curl in tighter for a split second, and Jack hopes his face didn’t do the thing where everything he’s thinking and feeling is broadcast on his face.  
  
“What, you don’t think he can socialize with that woman who tried to climb the fence earlier?” Diego teases as they set out, apparently taking it upon himself to steer both this conversation and Jack. “Heard she was very excited to see you man, showed up with all of your albums.”  
  
“Eh, crazy determined women old enough to be my mom aren’t really my type,” Connor tells him, deigning to join the conversation after staring at Jack and Diego for most of it.  
  
“Yeah? What’s your type then?” he asks, innocent and curious and he doesn’t realize, not until he catches sight of both Jack and Biz’s faces, that he’s fucked up.  
  
There’s a hard light in Connor’s eyes, completely at odds with the easy set of his shoulders and the slow, relaxed way the words come out of his mouth. “My type? Someone who keeps their promises. Who doesn’t go back on their word.” The twist of his lips is the only show of bitterness. “Isn’t that the worst? I couldn’t be with someone who doesn’t have any conviction, or the will to see something through, whose love is so weak.”  
  
For one heartbeat to the next, it’s all Jack can do to just breathe. Connor’s going to paint him as the villain in this story? Fine, he can be the villain. If trying to hold them together despite everything, and having the strength to let Connor walk away in the end makes him the bad guy, so be it. He accepts that. They were young and stupid and too idealistic for everything to come out the way they planned.  
  
But fuck him for saying that his love was weak. If anything, his love was too strong, blinding him and making him believe they were walking that road hand in hand, when in reality Connor was two steps ahead.  
  
Connor’s an idiot, and a fool. Jack doesn’t believe that his love was any less than his, but it blinded him. He thought that love was all they needed to get through the hard times, and that ended up destroying them too.  
  
As if he’s the only one who suffered.  
  
“Well,” Biz responds, almost a bit too loudly if the way Diego flinches is any indication. “While that’s an interesting philosophical point, Connor, I think Diego meant something more along the lines of eye color and fashion sense.”  
  
Strong arms wrap themselves around Jack’s shoulders, knocking Diego aside. “Woo-hoo, party time!” Dylan yells in his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see Mitch clinging to Connor in a similar fashion. Mitch being Mitch, that means he’s actually forcing Connor to give him a piggyback ride. Biz is shaking his head, his expression a familiar mixture of relief and exasperated fondness as they fall behind.  
  
“Come on, Stromer,” Jack grumbles.  
  
Dylan’s arms tighten briefly. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs low into Jack’s ear. “I turned my back for a moment and he disappeared.”  
  
He shrugs. “It’s fine.” And it is. Jack doesn’t expect Dylan to be Connor’s keeper. He regrets that they’ve dragged so many people down with them. Whatever he and Connor were to one another, Dylan has and always will be Connor’s best friend. Now they live on opposite ends of the country, juggling impossible schedules.  
  
Dylan’s never blamed him for that, but the guilt still lingers. It’s guilt that forces Jack to open his mouth. “You should ask him to do that song.”  
  
“What song?” he asks cautiously.  
  
Jack rolls his eyes. “You know what song. The one you and Mitchy have been having trouble with for Ezekiel’s Exile. You should ask him to collaborate. It needs a voice like his.”  
  
“I hadn’t thought about it.” Except the hitch in his voice says he has, and discarded the idea. Probably because he thought Jack would never allow Connor to step foot in Lyme, or that Connor would flat out refuse to come at all if it meant being in Jack’s general vicinity without an event as a buffer.  
  
Honestly. “That’s a lie and you know it. Just ask.” Then, turning his head, he tosses over his shoulder, “Hey, I thought we were heading to the party. I’m starving.”  
  
“Party!” Mitch chirrups after a brief pause. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”  
  
Diego slips his arm through Jack’s while Dylan slides around to his other side, keeping one arm firmly around his shoulders. Jack sighs a little bit.  
He really needs a drink.

Luckily for Jack, the bar that Selanne picked has one of the most impressive drinks menus he’s ever seen. Their group isn’t the first at the bar, but they’re on the early side. Early enough that Diego can smile and ask nicely, and get possession of a booth tucked back into the corner that was originally occupied by some YouTubers. It’s a brief shuffle, everyone getting louder as they try and cram everyone in. Dylan, coordinating with Mitch, manages to keep Connor and Jack separated and not on the outside of the booth.  
  
Noah eventually arrives with a contingent of hockey players. He makes his way over to their table followed by a waiter with a round of drinks, which earns him a few hoots and hollers of appreciation. Diego makes a token protest when Noah gestures for him to scoot over, but he concedes his spot next to Jack easily enough when Mitch tries to go for the loudest drink in the tray, complete with beachy umbrella.  
  
“So,” he murmurs while everyone else at the table gets caught up in Mitch and Diego’s squabble. “What the hell was that?”  
  
Jack rolls his eyes and reaches for one of the beers. “A really fucking stupid idea, but we learned from it and moved on. It’s fine now.” The lie sits heavy on his chest and he rubs absently at the spot.  
  
“Sure about that?” One corner of his mouth tugs downward, like it always does when he thinks Jack’s being monumentally stupid. “Because they have that nice VIP box for you guys to watch the games tomorrow and it would be a shame for the staff to have to clean up the blood.”  
  
“It’s a hockey arena, they’re used to dealing with blood.”  
  
“Yeah, on the ice or in the locker room, not in a VIP box where members of a very prominent ex-boy band are sitting.”  
  
Noah’s the best, Jack will readily admit this. He’s one of the few people that he trusts implicitly, but he has the worst case of protective older brother syndrome despite being the younger of the two. The crazy crew out in Buffalo hasn’t helped that situation, either. “There will be a buffer, Hanny, we’re not the only ones in there.”  
  
“Heated discussion there, eh boys?” Connor drawls from the opposite side of the table. Jack can feel his gaze burning into his skull and he wonders just what the hell he’s looking for.  
  
It takes a moment to shore himself up, piling up the sandbags and safely corralling everything away before he can allow himself to meet Connor’s eyes. “Hanny just needs some reassurance that he’s going to captain his team to victory tomorrow.”  
  
Everyone at that table knows him well enough to know that’s a lie. But that’s the thing about lies: sometimes you have to let them go, for the sake of everyone in the group.  
  
Diego leans over, trying to jab Jack in the ribs, and Jack had tuned out of the conversation as he’d tried to subtly look away from Connor so he has no idea what he’s being asked or why Biz is watching him like that. “What?”  
  
“It’s Drake!” Mitch shouts, getting to his feet. “Let’s dance!”  
  
And that’s just a flat out no. Dancing never leads to anything good. “Nah,” Noah responds before Jack can find some suitable excuse. “We’ll leave him to you GTA boys. We’ll come out when they play some Kanye.”  
  
“He’s not from Boston!”  
  
“Then we’ll wait for Marky Mark!”  
  
Diego pops to his feet. “I’ll be an honorary GTA resident!” Mitch cheers loudly and slings an arm around him, having to get onto his tiptoes to do so. Biz just watches the proceedings with a jaundiced eye and a smirk, a combination that never fails to get him out of dancing. Always a wise choice.  
  
Connor leaves after a few insistent tugs from Dylan, but not without one final glance that Jack is honestly too tired to try and unpack right now. He’s exhausted from this silent, mental game and his body aches from that earlier hit on the ice. The best thing to do is just finish his beer and slip out quietly so that he can get his head on straight.  
  
“Jack.”  
  
He sighs. “Biz. The first time we’ve spoken anything other than inanities in the last few years and you wanna talk about that?” The Boston’s coming out strong in him now, as it does when he’s either drained, drunk, or emotional.  
  
“You know better than to try that with me, Jack. I can still haul you away if you’re feeling stubborn, don’t let the gray hair fool you.” That’s Biz, equal parts no-nonsense and simple caring.  
  
“You two need to sort your shit out. This has gone on long enough.” Noah breathes out an emphatic, ‘Yes,’ that Jack chooses to ignore.  
Jack knuckles at his eyes. “Fuck Biz, what else is there to sort out? He got the East Coast and you, I got the West Coast and Matt. I ended up with Dumb and Dumber over there too, but them’s the breaks.”  
  
“You need closure. All you two did was blow up and walk away. Look at you now - every meeting is an explosion waiting to happen. Matty and I are getting too old to keep cleaning up your messes. Who do you think he called after all that Instagram Live shit went down in Korea?”  
  
“You were trending as ‘genius dongsaeng producer.’” Noah mangles the pronunciation, shaking his head as if Jack’s never trended before. It’s been years, admittedly, but it has happened.  
  
“I figured someone would have to lock him out of Twitter to keep him from trashing that cover.” Connor had to hate the idea of him even attempting to touch something of his.  
  
Biz squints at him. Either he’s losing his eyesight, or he thinks Jack’s just said something incredibly dumb. “Whatever response you think he had, you’re probably wrong.” His voice softens but when the words come, they still feel like a blow. “You know that your music always meant to the most to him.  
  
“Biz,” Jack can’t do more than sigh as he says his name, exhausted and completely over everyone’s scrutiny today. “That was then. And as you’ve pointed out, we’ve changed, we’re at each other’s throats when we see each other now, and it’s been made clear to me that, professionally, he doesn’t trust my judgement.”  
  
Noah claps a hand to Jack’s shoulder, but keeps his mouth shut as he flags down their server for another round. Biz looks like he wants to say more, perhaps needle Jack into doing something the way he used to, but Noah’s got a pretty good glare on him and has finally decided to have mercy on Jack.  
  
It doesn’t last.  
  
Mitch comes back and he distracts Biz, hands flying as he tells some bullshit story. Jack could drown in how guilty he feels, because the whole reason Mitch is trying to cram seven or eight months of stories into one weekend is because Jack and Connor dragged everyone around them into their mess. Diego comes back with Mitch, stopping only long enough to steal the neon drink out from under his nose and throw it back before he’s back on the dance floor.  
  
Jack can’t see him, but it’s a safe bet that Dylan’s still dancing, probably draped over Connor so he can yell in his ear as he fills him in on whatever has happened since the last weekend he slipped away to New York for “business.” Jack appreciates and hates in equal measures that Dylan and Mitch don’t tell him point blank that they’re going to see Connor, framing it always as a “work” trip to see people and get help for their current projects. He hates himself most for being someone that they have to tiptoe around, that he can’t control himself enough to not be an emotional landmine when it comes to Connor.  
  
Jack has finished his second, then third beer and he wiggles the empty bottle at Noah to make him shift so Jack can make a break for the bathroom. Surely he’s socialized enough to call it a night, right? It’s loud enough that he could plausibly not hear Noah telling him that he better bring his emo ass back to the table ASAP. And it’s not like he’s facing Noah and could read his lips, so really all he has to do is time his text goodbye right, and he won’t get yelled at tonight. It’s only a temporary stopgap though: Noah will find him tomorrow, and he’ll be even more vicious with a night to pick his words.  
  
He’s coming out of the bathroom, drying his hands on his jeans because the dryer was broken, when he plows into Connor. More specifically, Connor’s chest and he’s surprised to find that he bounces back. Connor must’ve put on some muscle over the years, because the last time he was this close Jack would’ve been able to just bowl him over. Now though, he’s reeling and Connor’s grasp of his forearm feels like the only reason he’s still on his feet.  
  
“What?” It comes out like snarl, because Connor won’t let go and Jack needs to leave, needs to not be staring at Connor’s face and having his hand feel like a brand, a shackle, hurting him and leaving a mark for anyone to see.  
  
Connor doesn’t respond, just tugs him further away into some spot out of the way where no one can see them. And Jack allows him. Maybe it’s the shock of Connor actually touching him, bringing up memories best forgotten, of soft, hesitant kisses in empty rooms and lingering hands in darkened corners just like this.  
  
“You…” Connor trails off for a moment, shaking his head. Jack only gets a moment’s reprieve before his gaze wanders back, pinning him to the spot. “I saw that video. In Korea.”  
  
Dammit. That’s why Biz brought it up: he knew Connor was going to confront him about it. He should have known that that drunken karaoke night would come back to haunt him. There was no possible way that video wouldn’t have gotten to Connor eventually, not with social media being the way it is. Not the for the first time, he regrets giving Amber blanket permission to record everything from that night, but…  
  
There had been something about singing that song, in that moment. To take something that was so clearly Connor’s (so clearly theirs) and to pour everything he had into it - it was the kind of transformative experience musicians are always searching for. So it’s not exactly something he can regret, even though he knows it’s made him vulnerable in front of Connor. And the entire world, for that matter.  
  
His self-preservation kicks into high gear. “And?” He’s prepared for anything. Ridicule. Critique. All of the vitriol from earlier is surely nothing compared to what’s coming.

Suddenly all the cold rage and bitterness from earlier melts away, leaving Connor looking strangely young and vulnerable in front of him. He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, his hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at the back of his neck. It’s a gesture Jack hasn’t seen in years, even with Connor splashed over every news outlet from here to Mars, probably. “Was that...was that your way of saying you regret it? The way we ended?”  
  
Jack was right. He wasn’t remotely prepared for this. Of all the questions…  
  
There’s so much he could say right now. So much he could say to tip the balance one way or the other. He could say yes, and build something out of the growing hope in Connor’s eyes, turn back the clock and…  
  
And what? There is no turning back the clock. Everything happened the way it did for a reason. If he and Connor were truly meant to be together then they would be together, one way or another. Nothing changes the fact that Connor was reckless, marching full steam ahead regardless of the plans they’d hatched together.  
  
Even with all the shit that had gone down, all of the lawsuits and media, a few things had remained intact. Dylan and Mitch’s reputations, and their careers. Hell, Connor emerged from the chaos bigger and better. In Jack’s mind, that makes everything worth it.  
  
Had he gone Connor’s way...they all would have gone up in flames, all of Major, with no guarantee of coming out the other side.  
  
“No,” Jack says, and means it.  
  
He’s hated the way they ended, cried himself to sleep on Matt’s couch and Jessie’s too. Hated making a fool of himself in multiple public venues. Hated being without Connor. But he has never regretted making that choice. It had been a love of music that held them together when they were still sizing each other up, teenagers with frightening tempers, and it was a love of music that was left to them when their love faded. So no, Jack doesn’t regret it.  
  
Connor’s face blazes through a range of emotions that Jack can’t hope to follow or understand. He understands how closed off Connor’s face gets at the end, however, stomach churning because Connor had been that closed off at the end, making all the arrangements to get out of Sewickley. Jack still dreams about Connor’s face, the first time and tenth time and the numerous other times they’d fought about how to leave Sewickley and what to do from there. It’s a slow motion nightmare, where every time it’s like Connor gets farther and farther away from him, uses more and more of their media training when he’s with Jack—like Jack is someone who he has to stick to the official statements with.  
  
It had hurt when it was happening in real time, and it hurt worse in his dreams. There was none of the efforts they’d made to make up after their fights, futile as those efforts turned out to be. His dreams, his nightmares are just the repetition of the fights and the final blow up, a harsh reminder of everything he’s lost.  
  
“Was there something else you wanted?” Jack owes every damn person who’s coached him on how not to let everything he’s thinking and feeling show on his face or in his voice a massive thank you and probably a fruit basket. His voice doesn’t shake and the hand that removes Connor’s from his arm is steady. Connor’s thrown another emotional bomb at him, and Jack’s caught it. He’d like to be somewhere far away and private when it explodes on him, and there’s only a short window of time before he falls to pieces. Again. The way he seems to after every encounter he has with Connor, scarce and short as those run-ins generally are.  
  
“No.” His voice is frigid now, his face utterly devoid of emotion, it’s so tightly reined in. A PR agent’s dream.  
  
Jack hates it. But Jack no longer has a right to that opinion.  
  
Schooling his face into something equally bland, he drawls, “So we’re done then.”  
  
Connor’s hands fist at his sides and Jack wonders if this will be the moment where they finally throw it down. Is that all that’s left for them now, fists and bruises? It’s not what he wants for them, could never be what he wants for them, but almost anything would be better than this unbearable impasse.  
  
If there was a time for violence, it’s passed. Connor’s eyes flit shut briefly. “Yes, we’re done.” There’s an air of finality to it, a heaviness that weighs everything down. Connor leaves as quickly as he appeared leaving Jack numb and breathless in the worst possible way.  
  
He is so, so over this weekend. And there’s still one more day of it.  
  
“Jack?” Noah pops into view, face pinched and worried. “You didn’t come back right away. I thought-”  
  
“You thought right,” Jack mutters, pushing off from the wall, gut churning. “Get me the hell out of here, Hanny.”

* * *

 

_February 2019_  
  
“Look, Monroe’s an asshole, all right? You know it, I know it, so we should just-”  
  
“Just what, Jack?” Connor demands eyes blazing. His face has steadily become redder and redder, from the moment he stepped into the studio, primed for a fight. It’s not like their fights about hockey or where to order dinner from, the fun ones that turn Jack on a bit. Connor won’t pick an easily resolved fight tonight. Not when he’s in such a destructive mood after whatever Monroe has done. “Keep ignoring him, the way you have for the last few years? I can’t do that anymore. You weren’t there, you didn’t hear what he fucking said about ‘Secret Love Song.’”  
  
The instinctual reaction is to hunt down Monroe and kill him. ‘Secret Love Song’ is sweet and haunting and deceptively powerful, an ode to the kind of love that has to be hidden away. It’s their relationship made into words and melody, as well as a desperate cry for change. Jack might be biased towards Connor, but he’s uncompromising when it comes to music and this song takes his breath away.  
  
Even if it does make his stomach twist into knots, knowing that this is Connor’s Hail Mary, the manifestation of his desire to break away from Sewickley completely. “You know he’s wrong.”  
  
“Of course I know he’s wrong, and I don’t want to deal with him anymore! I don’t want to deal with Bettman either, and I know you feel the same way, so why are we still here?” His hands curl into fists at his sides, leaning forward on the balls of his feet like they’re about to trade blows.  
  
A cold thread of fear worms through Jack’s gut. He’s always been able to talk Connor down when he’s brought up the topic of leaving the label and it’s not like he disagrees with the idea of it. It’s the manner of leaving that matters, and Jack doesn’t know how he ended up being the voice of caution in this but he is. He knows what a shitshow it would be if they just broke their contracts with Sewickley right now, before the album is completely finished and the tour hasn’t even begun. Bettman can and will take them to court and Jack has no doubt that in the ensuing mania, they’re going to be outed in the worst possible way.  
  
It could mean the end of their careers and Jack could honestly give a fuck about himself but he cares about what happens to Connor. Connor, who loves music first and foremost. How would he react if they follow through like this and he loses it all? Jack knows Connor and the all the possible fallouts are awful and wake him up at night, leaving him sweaty and skittish for the rest of the day.  
  
Every possibility ends the same way. Connor will resent him in the end, for taking that all away. And that cannot be borne.  
  
“Davo,” he breathes, rubbing at his eyes. He doesn’t know how to reiterate his arguments knowing that this time, they’ll be falling on deaf ears. “What do you want me to say?”  
  
He hears a long rush of air, and suddenly the warm weight of Connor’s hands are on his knees. “Jack,” Connor murmurs from his place in front of him. His words are soft. Hushed. Pleading. “You already know.”  
  
_Come on. Come out. Come here._  
  
Oh, he knows. And there’s the part of him that doesn’t give a damn about anyone else that yearns towards it, that would take that outstretched hand in the blink of an eye. The part of him that is young and reckless and prone to doing dumb shit because he’s in love and he’s capable of it. Jack is all of those things.  
  
But Jack gives a damn about Connor. That’s why he can’t do it. “I do. But Connor...I can’t. So please. Just wait a little longer.” He’s never begged for a thing in his life but he’ll beg now.  
  
When he opens his eyes, Connor’s staring at him, slack-jawed. “What do you mean, you can’t?” he asks quietly.  
  
“It’s not the right time.” It’s a struggle to keep the conviction in his voice, when everything is beginning to feel hollow inside. Everything feels precarious in this moment, like a mere breath is all it will take to topple them both.  
  
“You keep saying that!” Connor bursts out. “You’ve been saying that and we’re still here! How am I supposed to believe that anything is actually going to change?”  
  
Jack gestures at his mixing board, the scattered notebooks and empty coffee cups. “Doesn’t this album already show that things have changed? Connor, we had a plan-”  
  
“I’m beginning to think that this plan only benefits one of us,” he cuts in harshly.  
  
“We don’t have a choice, not if-”  
  
“Of course we have a choice! There’s always a choice!”  
  
He sucks in a breath, holding it until his lungs burn, then lets it out slowly. This. This is what he’s been afraid of. Connor’s optimism is one of the best things about him. He was the one who believed that Major could really be something, right from that first jam session. Jack’s never known anyone like him, with the drive and the work ethic to back up those big dreams and if it were any other situation, Jack would believe Connor. Wholeheartedly.  
  
Not here though. Not now. This is going to be what breaks them, he knows as he tries to breathe through the numbness in his chest. He’s had nightmares about this, about not being able to get Connor to see what he’s seeing, about how important and delicate their attempts to leave are and why Jack doesn’t want to throw caution to the wind and just go.  
  
Jack sees the exact moment when it sinks in with Connor, too. He slumps back, reeling as though he’s been hit. “You’re not going to do it, are you?” he asks, dazed and bleak.  
  
There’s nothing he can say to that - nothing he hasn’t already said, ad nauseum.  
  
“Jack.” Connor’s voice shakes and everything in Jack wants to reach out, to ease the pain and distress that’s coming off him in waves but he’s frozen in his seat. He can’t stop what’s happening, and can only watch as the end approaches. “It’s supposed to be you and me, Jack. What the hell happened to that?”  
  
At first, the accusation is so unbelievable that it doesn’t even register. But then the words seep through and the nerve, the fucking nerve. It’s Connor, and Connor alone, that he’s thought of this entire time. It’s Connor and their future he’s had in mind as he painstakingly worked out every plan, carefully worded every interview, navigated the minefield that is life at Sewickley, and poured everything - everything - into this last album.  
  
But none of it comes out. Instead, Jack finds that he can move again and he gets to his feet, surprised that his knees aren’t giving out. Connor’s still talking, yelling even, but nothing penetrates the static in his ears, nor can he see past the blankness encroaching on his vision.  
  
Whoever said that when everything ends, it fades to black is wrong, he thinks as he makes his way out of the studio. All he’s left with is bright, searing light, and the sensation of a cold so intense that it burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -There are a number of Pennsylvania city references here, because Kayla.  
> -Had to get some hockey in here somehow, no?
> 
> *Only 2 PA references, and one is so lowkey I doubt people will notice.  
> *The tweets are a tad mangled, but we're going to blame twitter's algorithm and not my inability to fight with the html anymore.  
>  
> 
> Songs 4-8 correspond to this chapter in the [Playlist of Angst™](https://8tracks.com/eich-like/an-open-book-with-nothing-left-between-the-lines).


	3. Interrupted Cadence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted Cadence: considered a weak cadence because of the ‘hanging’ (suspended) feeling it evokes.

Connor gets to the rink early, hoping to find time to talk to some people before the crowds and their stupidly good phone cameras were around to see and speculate. He’s talked to one of the major investors in a Broadway show that’s interested in having him do some songwriting for his next project as well as a handful of NHL PR people about potentially performing at future events. If Biz asks, he’ll say that he’s talked to everyone he needed to. In all honesty, Connor doesn’t need to talk to the last person he’s hunting down, but he wants to and it’s been so damn long since he’s wanted to do that that Connor is inclined to just go with it. He’d seen Matt and Alicia hanging out by the glass yesterday, and the kids with them have to be Mila and Georgie even if they’ve grown so much that Connor doesn’t really recognize them. It’s unsurprising that they’d come up for this, when he thinks about it. The Moulsons pretty much adopted Jack when Matt came on as one of Major's managers and from stories Dylan and Mitch share on the rare weekends they’re in New York with him, they’re still fairly close with the Moulsons as well.

Connor isn’t as close with Matt, not that he ever was, but he’s finally in a place where he’d like to reach out to some people from his time at Sewickley and actually talk. Matt seems like a good place to start, assuming Jack hasn’t mentioned last night to him. If he has, Connor is screwed. Matt has always been protective of his kids, and last Connor checked, Matt was one of the better students at a boxing gym that they’d both frequented during their time in Florida. Connor sighs and hopes for the best as he hauls himself up from his seat on the bottom steps of the empty stairwell he’d ducked into earlier. A lot of the VIP pass holders had been fans of his, or had children and grandchildren who were, and Connor is already a little short on patience and sociability. The sooner he finds the Moulsons and is visibly talking to people, the less chance that he can get dragged into another conversation about a Major reunion or any special surprises here at the All-Star Game.

“Jack, tell Diego to stop being a jerk and give me back my phone!”

Connor stops at the far side of the room, and leans against the bar to watch. The recent renovations and “ambiance enhancements” at the Honda Center mean that there’s a large, strange sculpture in the middle that blocks him from the view of the cluster of people sprawled over couches in an otherwise empty lounge. Jack is squeezed into one side of the center couch, Alicia next to him as she shows him something on her phone, and Diego and a man Connor thinks must be part of his band taking up the rest. Mila is sprawled against the legs of the unknown man and Diego, pouting up at them as they hold a phone above her reach. Connor wonders why she isn’t getting to her feet to snatch it back, but gets his answer shortly.

“Really you two? She sprained her ankle last week because you two thought you could teach her gymnastics, and now you steal her phone?” Jack sighs, not even looking up from what Alicia is showing him. Connor looks away, focusing on Diego and the man next to him. They both look shamefaced, even though Jack didn’t really scold them. 

“I know how to do gymnastics, I just wanted them to teach me how to do a flip while on a skateboard,” Mila protests as Diego surrenders her phone back to her.

“Honey you did that without a helmet or pads, and with two boys who don’t know first aid,” Alicia reminds her, rubbing her temples the same way she used to when they’d read their own press, like their stubborn insistence on doing things that hurt themselves left her with a permanent migraine. “You’re lucky Jack was already on his way to get you and that you didn’t break your neck.”

“Ok, all of this true but have we considered that having my big brother carry me like a freaking princess into urgent care hurt my reputation way more than the fall hurt my as-butt, hurt my butt,” Mila cuts herself off at a look from Alicia, who seems unimpressed with her point and her language.

“Kiddo if I really wanted to hurt your reputation, I’ve got a lifetime’s worth of videos and more followers than you three idiots combined. And yes Ryder, I have videos of you and Diego and the Charlottes -  you all have very generous siblings and cousins.”

“Speaking of the Charlottes, we are being summoned for press stuff Ryder my dude, so we gotta haul ass before another spurious rumor about my personal life magically finds its way onto the internet,” Diego remarks, shoving Ryder’s shoulder as he gets off the couch, “Matt is already on his way to meet us because someone has trust issues.”

Jack laughs, loud and obnoxiously gleeful. “For damn good reason. You brats can’t seem to decide if you wanna be a PR dream or a nightmare.”

“Ryder, did Matt mention anything about Georgie? They’d gone to find a quiet place for his German oral exam earlier and I haven’t heard from them since,” Alicia asks as she gets to her feet and helps Mila get up and get settled on the couch next to Jack.

“Exam went well, Georgie is starving and insisting that he can be trusted to find food and then find his way back up here.”

Connor’s too far away to actually see anyone’s eyes rolling, but he knows the body language that goes with that kind of collective heavy sighing.

“Right, I’ll go make sure he doesn’t accidentally wander back to LA, and that you boys actually go to this interview. Mila, Jack, you two are fine up here, right?”

It’s hard to hear Jack and Mila’s agreement over Ryder and Diego’s protests as they follow Alicia. Connor takes a step back, preparing to bolt or act like he just got here if they come his way, but they must take the other set of stairs.

His heart takes a moment to stop hammering away in his chest, but it’s fine. He’s fine. His chest doesn’t hurt with the casual warmth and camaraderie that Jack is part of, surrounded by. Connor appreciates a lot about being solo, but there are plenty of days where he thinks about what he had as part of a band. People to shoot the shit with, hide from obnoxious fans and reporters with, people who weren’t overly impressed with him and would call him on the dumb shit he did. People he never had to explain himself to and just _got_ it.

“Jack? Thanks for not yelling yesterday.” Mila’s quiet, and even though it’s been years since he spent time with her, it still strikes Connor as very far from her normal behavior. The Mila he remembers was always bubbling over with energy, words spewing out of her without ceasing.

“Despite the jokes, I’m not actually your third parent. I can’t actually ground you, and your dad is much better at chewing people out for dumbasss decisions,” Jack responds, fond. He’s always been a sucker for kids, and the Moulson babies (not babies now, Connor corrects himself, they haven’t been babies for years) take that to the next level. “Besides, I have an idea about why you were willing to risk it.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay.”

They’re quiet for so long that Connor contemplates sneaking away while he can, because they might actually both be asleep. Jack, Mila, and Matt all share the enviable ability to fall asleep literally anywhere. A couch in the VIP lounge wouldn’t even make a top fifty list of weirdest or most uncomfortable places that they’ve fall asleep. He still remembers finding Mila beneath one of the craft tables when they were on tour.

“How did you know you were making the right choice? When you picked music over hockey, and for those other big choices? It’s all so massive and permanent....” Mila trails off, and Connor is so glad he didn’t leave earlier while he had a chance.

“You’re in a different spot with gymnastics than I was with hockey, but it was like this...I noticed that what motivated me to get out of bed, to try new things, what made me happy to do even if there were objectively people who were better than me doing the same thing had changed. There were only so many hours in the day, and to grow I had to pick something to concentrate on, which meant the other wasn’t going to get as much time and energy. It wasn’t fun or easy to think about, but cutting back on hockey seemed like a lesser sacrifice than cutting back on music.”

“Oh.”

“Like I said, you’re in a different place with gymnastics. And I’m guessing you’re thinking about Parkettes and All Olympia?”

“Yeah. I have to make a decision soon, and I think I'm okay with that. I’m not as okay with how permanent that decision will be.”

“Here’s some free advice kiddo: make the best choice you can right now, and if it gets fucked up, you’ve got plenty of people to help clean up. Including me." He sighs gustily. "I am really damn good at fucking my life up, so I’ve got plenty of experience cleaning it up too,” Jack tells her. Connor can just barely see Mila slump against Jack, apparently worn out from a fairly emotional conversation. He does leave now, confused at how the Jack he remembers has grown into a fairly insightful and supportive big brother and mentor.

If he actually wants to talk to Matt, he needs to find him, preferably without getting caught being a creep around his kids first. Matt, it turns out, is on the phone doing damage control and glaring at Diego and Ryder in one of the offices tucked away by the bars on the second floor. It’s so familiar that if Connor blinks, he’s seventeen and getting chewed out for being papped drinking in Germany with the boys, causing a shit show about how clearly they’re all teenage alcoholics who are enabled by the Hollywood machine. He wanders a bit, far enough that there’s no way he could be accused of eavesdropping, and scrolls through Twitter. Biz wants him to be more active. Connor had tried to argue that Biz made sure the official accounts were plenty active already, but Biz had stared him down.

“Bud, they know it’s not you. And unless you want even more jokes about how you’re a luddite who can’t even log into twitter, you need to start occasionally tweeting things on your own. I’m not asking for you to be as active as Mitch. Hell, not even as active as Dylan. But if you’re doing something that fans would be interested in, throw them a fucking bone.” 

So Connor retweets the NHL’s announcement of the day’s rosters with a few emojis, favoriting a few fan replies that mention how excited they were to see him play yesterday. No one is coming down the hall from the office yet, so Connor keeps going. It’s easy enough to do: reply to fan asking how excited he was on a scale of 1-100 to be on Team Selanne with a simple 100!, chirp Dylan for the fucking abysmal tape job he tweeted out just before yesterday’s game - he’s an embarrassment to Canada, to Ontario, and Connor is so sorry that he was stuck on Team Selanne with him, and just be engaged in a way that he isn’t when he’s working on the next album.

He doesn’t follow Jack’s account, but he still checks on it after seeing it mentioned in the general hashtags for this game. Connor is a little surprised at how active Jack is, at least for this weekend. Jack’s tweeted out Mila and Georgie’s signs from yesterday. He’s even mentioned accounts that Connor is fairly sure belong to Alicia and Mila. They’re protected accounts, and he can’t see anything. It hits him again that he’s not part of their lives the way he once was, the way Jack still is. Jack's also tossed up a blurry selfie of him with Noah and Diego at the bar last night, and hell there’s even a video that must be from today of a small group of fans outside teasing Diego for all those sloppy passes yesterday. Connor replays the video again and again, because if he concentrates he can hear what sounds like Jack laughing in the background.

Connor refuses to think about why he wants to hear Jack laugh. If pressed, he’ll claim he needs as proof that Jack truly didn’t care about him, about them, if he’s laughing so quickly and easily after his conversation with Connor last night. If Jack had loved Connor as deeply as Connor loved Jack, he’d still be thinking about their talk, twisting it around in his mind like a rubik’s cube. So clearly, Connor was right. Jack’s laughter proves it.

Something holds him back, though. With Jack, it always does, keeping him from tipping over that ledge and leaving everything in the past the way it belongs. He’d been ready to walk away last night. Hearing Jack admit that he didn’t regret how they ended felt like being torn apart and betrayed all over again. He remembers the bitterness and the hopelessness that came over him as he stalked out of the club thinking that that was it. There was no going down that road ever again, not with Jack, at least.

But that road, and Jack, are inextricably tied to music, and that always seems to bring him back.

That damn Instagram video. It haunts him, and has ever since the internet all but forced it into his hands a few months ago. It spurred him into accepting the invitation to the All-Star Game in the first place, knowing that Jack would be there.

Connor practically has the whole thing memorized now, he’s watched it so many times. Every blink, every breath, every tiny hitch and break in Jack’s voice - Connor knows it all, despite the crappy video quality and the tinny sounds of the karaoke track. Every word, every note Connor had written with him in mind - Jack has somehow breathed new meaning into them.

 _Under haunted skies I see you_  
_Where love is lost your ghost is found_  

“Connor?”

And suddenly it’s like Connor’s eighteen again, awkward and gangly with spots on his face. It’s not in a bad way, really. Out of their three managers, Matt was always the best at making sure Sewickley didn’t make them grow up too much, too fast. Matt would be the one to talk you down from the ledge, Biz the one to toss you over his shoulder and carry you away.

It’s an absurd feeling, especially when he can see how Matt’s hair is now almost ninety percent gray, when it was only salt and pepper when Major was still together. But then, absurd more or less describes everything about this weekend so he might as well roll with it at this point. “Hey, Matt. Didn’t get to say hi to you yesterday, thought I’d do it now.”

Matt rolls his eyes at Connor’s outstretched hand and pulls him in for a hug instead. “Well, hi,” he laughs, pulling away but keeping his hands firm on Connor’s shoulders as he scans him up and down. “I shouldn’t be surprised at how much you change every time I see you, but I am. I mean, that Rolling Stone shoot didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, did it?”

The blush is immediate and automatic. And he was the one who’d done the damn thing. “That diet sucked,” he admits. The photoshoot itself was also by far the most uncomfortable one he can remember doing, impressive considering all of the awkwardly themed shoots Major had to endure early on. He’d spent days washing off all the product they’d used on him, oils on his body and creams in his hair. The less said about the waxing, the better. 

“Ah, but now you have some truly iconic photos to show off to future grandkids,” Matt jokes. “So, how are you feeling today? Yesterday seemed pretty...hectic.”

“Hectic? Is that how you would describe it?”

The look Matt shoots him says he isn’t fooling anyone. There’s a reason why Connor’s a musician, not an actor. “Better than FUBAR, don’t you think?” 

Connor doesn’t know what to think; that’s the problem. The video tells him one thing, his conversation with Jack last night, another. His heart and his mind keep pulling him in opposite directions, his head insisting that yes, what they had was real and undeniable but over. Therefore, he’s finished and no lingering feelings remain, no what-ifs and baggage to weigh him down. By that thinking, he should rejoice in the idea that Jack’s fallen so far from the spotlight that not even a few “where are they now” Buzzfeed lists can resurrect him.

Instead, it rankles. None of it feels right and he can’t quite figure out why. Connor’s missing something here, some enormous realization he’s standing at the edge of, but the fog’s obscuring his vision. For the past few years everything’s made sense and there’s been a sort of comfort to that: Major was over, he and Jack were over, and that was that. 

Now, none of it makes sense. The video, the game, that conversation that Connor cannot stop replaying over and over in his head like a bad movie. No, Jack said, but everything about it smacks of half-truths, of things buried beneath the surface.

Connor doesn’t like thinking that he only has part of the truth in hand.

“FUBAR is...fair,” he admits, realizing that Matt’s still waiting for an answer.

“Good.” Matt claps him on the back, friendly but firm. “So what the hell are you doing to do about it?”

* * *

 

Given everything that’s happened, Jack walks into the VIP box expecting just about anything. A ninja assassin squad out for his blood, some arena staffer who’ll politely inform him that his seat has been moved down to the regular seats...anything. Hell, he’d prefer to sit in the regular seats, preferably up against the glass but Matt’s here now, and will probably have none of it. Appearances, and all that.

In any case, he’s expecting just about anything and it’s still a punch to the gut to see Connor looking pretty cozy with the actor who scored the game-winning goal yesterday. Jack still doesn’t know who the kid is, except that he’s young and hot and steadily climbing his way through the ranks.

Jack’s not an idiot. There’s no way Connor’s remained single since their breakup. Even Jack’s had his fair share of hook-ups and short-lived flings because he’s only human. Still, he’s never had to see any of it firsthand and he doesn’t like the feelings that rise up in him at the sight of Connor’s head bent close to the other guy’s, or the way Connor’s hand lingers at the small of his back. It’s amazing that Connor still has that kind of power over him, that it can hurt that badly.

“I get it now.” Jack almost leaps a foot in the air and when he turns around, it’s to find Paul Kariya looking at him with simple understanding in his eyes. Understanding, not pity, which is a relief because he won’t take pity from anyone. “In my experience, that kind of bad blood usually comes from a messy breakup.”

Jack barks out a laugh, low and mirthless, oblivious to how the sound draws Connor’s attention from across the room. “Same old story." 

Kariya shrugs. “Still hurts when it happens to you.”

And no. Just no. Jack’s not up to this level of introspection, regardless of the fact that it’s Paul fucking Kariya. “In a few hours it’s all moot point anyway,” he says, falsely breezy. “You going to show me what they got at the buffet or what?”

Evidently, Kariya knows how to pick his battles because he acquiesces easily enough, towing Jack over to the buffet and blathering good-naturedly about the catering.

But Jack’s friends are well-meaning, which means it isn’t long before Dylan comes over with a worried expression on his face. He keeps his voice hushed even though the first game is well underway, the cheers of the crowd threading their way into the box. “Eichs, I’m sure it isn’t anything serious-”

“What does it matter, Stromer?” He’s just so damn tired. “Connor does what he wants, always has and always will. Only difference is now it’s none of my business.” 

Jack can all but feel the concern radiating off Matt, Dylan, Mitch, and Diego, and it casts one hell of a pall over the rest of the afternoon. He’s honestly not sure how he gets through the rest of it, only that Mitch keeps nudging him when it’s appropriate because hell, Noah’s facing off against PK Subban in the final game and he needs to be cheering his best friend on. He goes through the motions on autopilot, but everything else is that familiar bright, buzzing white static.

He knows that what he had with Connor was something brief and beautiful, that he was given to him on borrowed time. He knows that, and now it’s time to accept it. He’s been holding on to what they had without knowing, holding on to that dazzling, beautiful talented boy without really realizing that he’s gone. Connor’s gone and become someone else, equally dazzling and beautiful and talented, but different all the same.

Some desperate part of Jack yearns to know him but he knows that’s not possible. Not after the game yesterday, and most certainly not after what happened last night. Any embers left burning from back then have to be stamped out and he needs to start over and really think of a life without Connor. 

It’s time to let go.

Somewhere in the drive from Anaheim to LA, the full realization of it hits him. For a moment it’s as though his lungs simply collapse, his breath stalling before the air rushes back into his lungs.

He waves off Matt’s concerned queries and flat-out refuses to let him come inside, citing that he really just needs his alone time after this disaster of a weekend. It’s not exactly wrong, and he lets the truth of that cover the small lie, hoping it’s enough to keep Matt away for a little while.

Jack silences his phone and tosses it aside as he stumbles his way down to the studio, a hand pressed to his chest as he struggles to keep breathing, two different melodies and two different sets of lyrics forming themselves in his head. “I can’t breathe,” he gasps.

And it hurts. Oh how it hurts.

This love, this burden he’s carried with him invisibly for years, is staggering in its weight and he just can’t do it anymore.

Connor’s clearly moved on. It was so obvious, playing out on the other side of that VIP box. Perhaps too obvious, like Connor's deliberately throwing that in his face but it doesn't change the fact that Connor could have anyone he wants. _Deserves_ anyone he wants. Somehow, Jack needs to dredge up some happiness for him and eventually do the same himself.

 _Slam_. His hand slaps the tabletop as he drags in another burning breath, the other hand desperately scrabbling about for one of his notebooks so that he can get these words onto a page. His heart feels like it’s breaking all over again.

All the love Jack’s given Connor...he can keep it. It was always his to begin with. But he won’t keep searching for Connor to give any love of his back. What he needs to do now is patch himself up the best way he knows how, and eventually, maybe, he’ll discover some deep well of it again. Maybe he’ll have the strength to give that love to someone else.

The wrongness of that sentiment is a physical ache, arcing up his back and Jack lets out a sob, pen scratching furiously across the page.

_I’ll breathe again._

It’s a promise he’s making to himself. He will. He has to.

But the studio is a liminal space, a space where he doesn’t have to adhere to his promises. Not yet. Here, as one song pours desperately out of him a cry of healing and pain, another one is taking form, audacious in its own way. Longing and hopeful in turn.

Piano. It has to be piano for both. Jack doesn’t know how long he spends going from page to piano to recording booth. He knows that at one point Matt starts pounding at the door, yelling at him to “at least open up the curtains, you ass, so that we know you’re alive and unlock the door long enough for us to give you food.”

Jack blinks. The studio has windows into the rest of the basement, with curtains that he can draw for privacy. And while he has a minifridge stocked with water and Gatorade, he really doesn’t remember the last time he ate, let alone what he ate. Maybe just a protein bar.

When he does open the curtains and the door, it’s to find a wrathful Matt and a drawn Mitch, holding a tray with soup and crackers and yes, a protein bar. He feels a little bad, he knows the last time it was like this was after Connor left but it’s different this time, he swears. They might not know it now, but they will. “Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the tray from Mitch. They startle at the sound of his voice, not rusty or creaky but smooth, the way he trains it to be when he expects the absolute most out of his range.

“How long?” Matt asks, his voice gentler now, a concerned light still shining in his eyes. He knows better than to ask if one of them can sit with him. That this is the most Jack will allow.

“When it’s finished,” Jack replies. “But soon.” He’s getting antsy, the songs popping up in muted colors in his mind, colors that will only become more vibrant as he brings them to life. “It’ll be fine,” he assures them, before gently closing the door in their faces.

The cycle begins again, as words are scribbled out and replaced and annotated, again and again. Music notes change too until he just puts on the transcribing software and plays his heart out on the piano until both songs finally, finally sound right. Then it’s into the studio again, more methodical now that he has all the pieces and all there’s left to do is lay his heart bare.

It’s exhausting. It’s soul-wrenching. It’s heartbreaking.

But it’s also cathartic.

Jack feels lighter, full of resolve as he finally exits the studio. He did it. And then he promptly collapses into Matt’s arms, ruining the triumphant effect. “Dammit, Jack,” Matt hisses as he calls for help, tossing an arm over his shoulder, slinging the other around his waist. “I’m too old for this. You’re too old for this.”

Jack ignores him, and slaps a flash drive at Dylan’s chest as the other man comes barreling down the stairs to drag his carcass along. “That’s for Lottie, all right?” he croaks and yeah, he’s definitely strained his vocal chords now. He has to speak softly for the next day or so, and drink warm ginger and lemon teas that the kids will no doubt give him shit for.

Dylan stares at it a moment, understanding flickering for a moment before he nods. “This it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms as Matt starts bitching that the first order of business is a shower, Jack’s not frightening Mila and he’s going to damn well eat the cookies she’s bringing over, so help him god. 

Jack just nods and makes the appropriate, conciliatory noises. He thinks back to the other flash drive, locked away in a drawer in the studio, that last piece of fluttering hope.

He doesn’t think it’ll ever see the light of day, but that one last wish is there.

His little secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Connor is in fine Frederick Wentworth mode in this chapter, no?  
> -Jack is so. Dramatic.
> 
> **good old self destructive choices. Hate 'em, love 'em, make 'em.  
> ** I love third parent/third kid Jack Moulson. Jack needs more people in his corner, always. Fight me on that.
> 
> Songs #9-12 in the [Playlist of Angst™](https://8tracks.com/eich-like/an-open-book-with-nothing-left-between-the-lines) correspond to this chapter.


	4. Enharmonic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enharmonic: two notes that have the same pitch but are represented by different letter names and accidentals.

“You can’t kill me,” Dylan announces. “After all, this was your idea.”

That’s a non-sequitur if he ever heard one. Jack swivels around in his chair, frowning. “What the hell are you on about, Stromer?”

Dylan looks about as fraught as Jack’s ever seen him, shifting from side to side in his chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers. The last time he’d looked like this, he’d replaced Mitch’s sushi lunch with Play-Doh replicas, only for Mitch to offer it to one of the Lyme execs.“The song. The Ezekiel’s Exile song. Connor agreed to sing on it, and he’s coming to Lyme next week.”

Jack’s heart stops for a moment, because he’s really that cliche sometimes. “Why would I kill you?” he asks reasonably, flipping his chair back around so that he can get himself under control. He promised himself that he’d get over this, and he will. He won’t make it weird, which will definitely help if he does all of his recording sessions at his home studio-

“And I want you to run the recording sessions,” Dylan blurts out.

“Fuck.”

Dylan shrugs, apologetic but firm. “You’ve produced every single one of our recordings, you think you can just sit this one out? You’re the best at Lyme, Jack. Everyone knows it.”

“Get someone else, say you’re exploring new sounds - oh wait, you  _ actually are _ doing that. Get someone who actually has a background in whatever type of hipstery folk you guys are being described as this year.” Jack is damn proud of his pop background, and he’s turned down opportunities to work with some extraordinary artists because they didn’t appreciate the work that goes into quality pop. And besides, he’s only telling Dylan what Dylan’s own bandmates for this project group said once upon a time, after the first recording sessions for  _ Emmaus  _ had gone poorly.

At first. Jack did eventually get everyone on the same page.

“Jack,” Dylan insists, “We all talked about it and it wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t you.”

Jack shakes his head and stares down at the controls in front of them. He knows the sound Ezekiel’s Exile is going for on this album, and on this song in particular. He knows Connor’s voice. It’s so easy to picture together, how he’d have to adjust the bass in the bridge if Connor plays with transition in from the second verse the way he always does, how he’d strip it down acoustically for the deluxe version of the album. It would be both the easiest and the hardest thing to say yes. 

“Jack. Please,” Dylan pleads, voice barely loud enough to be heard above the hallway noise coming through the open door. “I won’t ask you guys to spend time together outside of the studio, I won’t leave you two alone - or let anyone else leave you two alone. No press coming in for a first listen, no promo, no behind-the-scenes photos from that song. Hell, we might have this done in 48 hours, and if we don’t I’ll drive him to the airport myself so that he’s in town for the bare fucking minimum time. Please.” 

That’s an empty promise and they both know it. Jack’s never spent less than 48 hours on a recording because he’s too anal about doing the song justice, whether it’s one of his or someone else’s. Experience in the industry can sometimes be more of a hindrance than a help, if someone’s not willing to take his direction. Then there’s the matter of the artist themselves. Even with Mitch and Dylan, whose voices are now as familiar to Jack as his own, he’s constantly trying to explore new avenues.

48 hours is a pipe dream, and Jack’s already had two pipe dreams actually become more than just dreams in his life. He’s clearly used up his allotment of extraordinary circumstances and luck. He didn’t think his resolve would be tested so quickly, but he’s never run from a challenge in his life and he’s certainly not going to start now. “You know I’ll do it, Stromer,” Jack mutters finally, pretending not to hear Dylan’s gusting sigh of relief. “Thanks for the heads up. Let me know when we’re having the first meeting.”

At home that night, Jack contemplates the USB with the other song. It calls to him still, despite being finished. How it would sound as a full recording, how he’d start it out on piano alone, before slowly building in drums and...something else. Brass, perhaps, because he likes the idea of something strong threading in and out of the steadiness of the piano. Strings, for some textural interest. He could try it now, mess with the synthesizer and-

No. Jack’s fingers tighten around a pencil he doesn’t even recall retrieving. The emotion is still too new, too potent. He can’t touch this song right now, not with Connor coming next week. Not when he’s also promised Lottie that he’ll go over the new song with her, the  _ other  _ song. If he adds this one to mix he’s probably going to implode.

Still, he allows himself to finish scratching out a few more bars, before locking away the sheet music and the USB once more.

Soon.

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Diego blurts out, barging into Jack’s studio at Lyme, door banging against the wall. Oops. “Connor McDavid’s coming here today to work with you-”

“With Ezekiel’s Exile,” Jack corrects him, sighing as he takes off his headphones. He does a double-take. “What the hell is wrong with your hair?”

Diego scoffs. If Jack wants to pick a fight, he’s ready for a fight. He’s been trapped in a salon chair for hours, his hair now a soft pink. “The concept for the new album is pastel, and I don’t think you of all people can make a value judgment on that.” It’s way better than the platinum blonde mop-top Jack sported when Major debuted. Jack still bitches about how long it took for his curls to recover from the bleach and the constant straightening.

“What the hell does pastel mean?”

“Exactly what it says on the tin.” Diego won’t be deterred. “You’ve have a hand in every single one of Ezekiel’s Exile’s songs, so of course you’ll be working on this one too.”

Jack’s expression goes hard. “It’s none of your business. That’s why you found out with everyone else.”

The dismissal hurts, even though Diego knows it’s coming from Jack’s reluctance to be a part of this nonsense. Unfortunately for Jack, Diego’s as stubborn as just about every other important person in his life. He folds his arms, scowling. “Jessie told me to watch out for you.”

“Jessie needs to stop enabling you.” 

“Oh come on. Charlie has her reservations too but she’s going to be dragged into a social media war with Lottie, you know it. And Ryder’s going to be too busy fangirling over the fact that his idols are all in the same place.”

“Ryder won’t show it. He’s more professional than damn near everyone else here,” Jack insists, and that stings a little too, even though Diego knows that Ryder’s been the steady one in Ellsworth since long before they had a name, let alone a record deal. Their managers rely on him to keep the rest of them from running completely wild. “And Charlie hates when the notifications make it impossible for her to actually use her phone, she won’t actually give in to Lottie and engage.” 

“We finally got her to mute notifications for everyone except us, and that includes you,” Diego’s voice is firm. Jack is theirs and the last thing they want is for him to go off the deep end. He feels a brief stab of irritation that Dylan even suggested bringing Connor on for this song. Didn’t he learn anything from the All-Star weekend? “And there’s never been a temptation like this before.” 

Jack twitches at the way he emphasizes temptation. No other word makes sense though. He’s pretty sure that prolonged exposure to Connor will result in something dramatic, from murder to hate sex to something else life and career ruining.

And it’s not that he thinks Jack isn’t strong enough to resist his more self-destructive impulses.  He deflates after a moment and slumps back against the wall. He’s  _ scared _ . He doesn’t like the Jack he saw that weekend, bitter and bleak and full of despair. If that’s the kind of person he becomes around Connor McDavid, then Diego wishes him far, far away.

Some of that must leak through because Jack’s face softens as he forces himself to his feet, wincing slightly at what’s probably a twinge in his back. He’s probably been at work for hours at this point. A strong hand grabs Diego’s shoulder, Jack waiting until he makes eye contact before telling him, “It’s only temptation if you think you can actually get it. If you can’t, it’s just a fantasy.”

“See, that! Right there!” he yells, waving his arms in the air. “That’s why I don’t think he should be anywhere near you, Jack! It’s too much.”

Suddenly he finds himself in a headlock, as Jack is wont to do when he and the others are being particularly annoying. “Come on, it’s not like I don’t appreciate the concern,” Jack tells him as he struggles fruitlessly, swearing under his breath. Jack’s built like a brick shithouse, like he’s still playing hockey or something. When does he have the time, honestly? “But it had to happen sometime, right? Besides,” he continues, releasing him and flopping back into his chair. “Connor doesn’t see me that way anymore.”

“Right,” Diego says flatly. “Tell me another one.” Jack has to be the biggest idiot in the world if he can’t see that. “Because from where I was standing, Connor McDavid could barely keep his eyes off you. No, I’m serious,” he insists when Jack scoffs. “It was like...he wanted your attention all the time.” And got pissy when he didn’t get it, but Diego’s not going to add that, he’s trying to  _ diffuse  _ the situation, dammit.

“I’m not, because it’s absurd.” He checks his watch. “Shouldn’t you be leaving for something right about now?”

Diego opens his mouth, but Lottie pops into the doorframe. “Come on, Diego, time for that photoshoot.” She frowns, tucking a strand of lilac-colored hair behind her ear. Ryder escaped the hair-dyeing insanity by having naturally platinum blonde hair, while Charlie put her foot down altogether but did end up agreeing to a pastel wardrobe. “I can’t believe I’m going to miss Connor McDavid. You’ll tell us all about the meeting, right Jack?”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to see him, and talk to him about the recording yourself. Now off with you two, I’m not taking the blame with your managers if you’re late.” It’s pretty much an empty threat - for them, at least. Shalu and Akira are great, but when Jack owes Shalu it’s usually in the form of a bottle of whisky. Akira’s tea preferences aren’t cheap, either.

“Jaaaaack,” Lottie whines, but she’s deceptively strong and manages to drag Diego off despite his protests.

Still, Diego checks his social media feeds, hoping for something,  _ anything.  _ Finally, some photos pop up on Sanaa’s private Snapchat. He’s still not sure how Dylan managed to recruit her for Ezekiel’s Exile. Her voice is utterly unique, and he’s not saying that lightly - rich and smokey, but a soprano rather than an alto, which is usually the case with people who have the same tone to their voice. On top of that, she plays the violin and the cello.

Lesser known is the fact that Jack and Sanaa almost hooked up, right when she first signed with Lyme, before they realized they were much better off as friends. Now she’s very happily married to Liam, a bassist and the last member of Ezekiel’s Exile.

Sanaa’s snap is a series of photos, no video. The first is of her mug next to Jack’s, sitting innocuously on a conference table. The next is of Liam, grinning and waving at the camera with a heart filter activated. Hilarious, since Liam basically looks like a lumberjack.

Connor makes his appearance in the next one, head bent close to Dylan’s as they pore over something - probably music - on an iPad. Sanaa puts a heart-eyes emoji on that one.

And that’s it. Not that Diego really expected to find anything concrete, like Connor strangling Jack, but he’s still disappointed. They’re not going to learn anything this way. He glances across the room at Charlie. Looks like they’re going to have to pull out the big guns.

* * *

 

Ezekiel’s Exile doesn’t start recording right away, because Jack has a recording schedule for Dylan to work around. Luckily for Lottie, the Lyme execs  _ loved  _ the song Jack handed over to her, and want a rough version to approve for Ellsworth’s album as soon as possible.

“All warmed up?” he asks as she bounces into the recording booth. It’s a perfunctory question, of course: Jack always expects his artists to be warmed up for their sessions. There’s no point in wasting any time.

“You know it,” she responds easily, settling across from him on the couch.

“Good. So what are your thoughts on the song, and approaching it?”

She smiles wryly. “You already know my thoughts, you bastard. Here I thought you couldn’t make me cry anymore with your songs but  _ nooooo _ , you just had to rip my heart out and stomp on it.” Papers rustle in her hands as she looks through her sheet music. The damn thing destroyed her upon first listen, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over Jack’s ability to make someone  _ feel _ . “This whole  _ chorus  _ is honestly the rudest thing, about holding my love in his hands? I would nope right out of it if I could.” 

He barely blinks at her barrage of tumblr-speak, used to it by now. “I mean, we could always give it to Charlie-”

Lottie kicks him. “No, don’t you dare, this is  _ my  _ song. Well, your song,” she amends. “But I’m the one singing it and if it were meant for Charlie you would have given it to her in the first place.”

Whiles he hadn’t written the song with her voice in mind, the two of them suit each other perfectly. Lottie knows that her voice has the strength and clarity to really carry the emotional runs with ease, a holdover from her classical training. And while Charlie would have no problem with the emotional side of the song, her voice is a little higher, somewhat breathy and more pop-like.

“Exactly. You’re going to wring out every ounce of emotion that this song deserves.” She squeaks happily at the praise and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, holding out a hand. “Now, let’s see your notes.”

She steps into the booth only minutes later. The song starts off slow and sad, just vocals and piano and drums, and those are the tracks Lottie can hear in her headphones. The piano carries the main theme of the song, but the percussion echoes steadily throughout the quieter sections, like a heartbeat.

Lottie has to wonder if it’s the rhythm of Jack’s heart, and if his heart has only ever beat for one person.

“Think of it this way, okay Lottie?” he asks, pausing the recording. She’s been singing the last few lines over and over, and it’s clear to both of them that she’s not quite  _ there _ , emotionally. “Your heart is breaking because of this guy, but even though it’s broken, it’s still beating for him. It’s like the line you pointed out earlier.”

Wow. It’s like being kicked in the ribs by a horse. She scowls at him through the glass. “Fuck my life, Jack. You’re going to have me crying by the end of this, aren’t you? ‘It’s still beating for him,’ shit _.  _ Why do I do this to myself? ‘Be a musician, Lottie, it’ll be fun, Lottie!’” The cadence of her parents’ native Kazakh paints her words as she waves her arms around wildly.

“Are you finished?” he asks dryly, mouth twitching. 

“Never!” is the playfully spiteful response, as she motions for him to start recording again.

Two hours later, Jack finally calls it. “Okay, that’s it for the day,” he says into the intercom.

“What? No!” she protests, hands clutching either side of the music stand. Her voice, still clogged with tears, cracks on the words. “I’m  _ there,  _ I have all the emotion, I just need to-”

“Rest your voice before it gives out on you, you thought I wouldn’t notice?” Jack makes his way into the booth, plucking the headphones from her seriously absurd mass of lilac curls. Maintenance is going to be a nightmare. “You’re singing live on Marns’ show tomorrow morning, remember?”

She pouts, her shoulders slumping a little bit. “I know Jack, but I  _ got it _ -”

“I know you do, and it’ll make it easier for you to get there once more when we come back to it. I promise,” he says soothingly, taking her by the shoulders and steering her right out of the studio and down the hall to Lyme’s very well-appointed employee lounge. Lottie slides onto a stool with a sigh, and Jack gets to work making mugs of her preferred citron tea. It’s their routine with him, which is why he has their favorite teas at his house, too.

He totally spoils them, the big softie.

It’s why she has the courage to ask the question that’s been bouncing around her head ever since she heard the demo. “This song...you wrote it because of him, right?”

Jack’s hands don’t falter once as he turns from the counter, mugs in hand. “It’s cathartic. Confession and resolution, all in one.”

“Like it’s ever that tidy.”

“Wise words from someone who was struggling with the emotions.”

“I  _ was _ , until I thought about it from your perspective.” Her words effectively freeze him in place and she swears, reaching over to touch her fingertips to his wrist. “I’m sorry, that was out of line-”

“Drink your tea, Charlotte,” Jack says firmly, but not unkindly. She winces and complies, because unlike some of her band members, she can usually be counted on to back down when she’s in the wrong.

They’re in the middle of a good-natured argument over her Instagram obsession (“Come on Jack, just one picture of our mugs!” “You’ve done this before, don’t your followers want to see something else?” “They love it when I post this stuff, they know it means we’re working on new material! Please? I promise I won’t even get tag you or get your hands in the shot or anything else that implies you’re here.”) when someone clears their throat in the doorway. “Um. I heard there’s tea?”

Speak of the devil. She knew Connor was using one of the practice rooms today, but pretty much lost any hope of seeing him until now.

“What kind of self-respecting music studio doesn’t?” Lottie asks cheerfully, toeing out a stool. “Have a seat, Connor - may I call you Connor?” Her hands go instantly sweaty, but she makes sure none of the nervousness or star-struck feelings show in the easy curve of her smile. Jack, though - she knows Jack can see it in the slight jerkiness of her movements, far removed from her usual grace. The more nervous she gets, the clumsier she gets, and he carefully nudges her mug away as he gets to his feet.

“Connor’s fine, and Jack, you don’t have to-”

Jack just waves off his protests, making his way back to the tea. “Just sit, Connor.”

“You really should let him,” Lottie pipes up, her interested gaze darting between the two men. Jack’s tense, she can see the way his shoulders are riding nearer to his ears, like he’s fighting some massive internal battle. Connor’s the exact opposite, almost liquid in the way he slides onto the stool beside her, but in a studied way. It’s almost  _ too _ nonchalant.

Diego’s right - the undercurrent between them is nearly tangible, like someone’s carted a Tesla coil into the room and turned it on. “Jack makes the best tea, and he likes making it for everyone else,” she continues.

The man in question snorts, reaching into the cabinet for one of the tins. “That’s just because I’m always making tea for you guys.”

“You love us,” she sing-songs.

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

Connor shifts his gaze from Jack to her and wow, Lottie suddenly understands all the Captain Canada jokes Dylan and Mitch throw around. The sense of gravitas and authority she’s seen from his stage performances is definitely there in person too. He doesn’t have to say anything, he just has to  _ be  _ and his presence fills the room.

No wonder Jack’s not over him.

“You’re Lottie from Ellsworth, right?” He smiles, polite but genuine interest lighting up his eyes. “I’m looking forward to your next album.”

She flushes with pleasure.  _ Oh my god, senpai noticed me!  _ “Yes I am, and yes, you should be looking forward to it, it’s going to be  _ great _ .” She jerks a thumb at Jack. “That one just put me through the wringer, you should honestly hear this song-”

“There be spoilers,” Jack interrupts hastily, finally turning from the counter and giving her a glare that yeah, makes her quail a little on the inside. “Here’s your tea.”

“Thanks,” Connor murmurs, and his expression as he continues to stare at Jack is one of mingled longing, bewilderment, and resentment. It’s a hell of a combination.

His tea, she notices, is in Ryder’s ridiculous Infinity Gauntlet mug, and he is absolutely going to die when he realizes that his idol used it. Lottie is trying to think of a way to politely ask him if she can put something related to  _ him  _ on Instagram when he takes a sip and promptly sputters.

For a moment, her imagination goes wild. Did Jack just go off the deep end and slip strychnine in there or something? Was Connor’s presence _ that much _ ? But Connor’s not turning purple or foaming at the mouth. When she finally works up the nerve to glance at him, his mouth is hanging slightly open and his eyebrows are nearly at his hairline. “You remembered?”

Jack is staring into his tea like he’s trying to read his own fortune. His ears are fire engine red. “It’s just tea,” he mumbles.

Like hell. There’s a story there, she knows it. Does Connor have a favorite tea, or a specific way of prepping it that Jack has remembered after all this time? Did they take tea breaks after practices and recording sessions too? The real answer probably lies somewhere in between.

In any case, Connor’s still not saying anything and Jack’s doing his best hedgehog impression, so it’s up to her to salvage the situation.  _ Better to ask for forgiveness,  _ she reasons, and nabs a picture of her mug (a transforming Marauder’s Map themed one) next to Connor’s with the caption, “Mystery guest in the studio, and he’s using Ryder’s mug!” Plus the Speak No Evil monkey emoji because she’s evil that way, and posts it on Instagram.

“So!” she chirrups happily. “When do I get to hear the new EE song?”

“Never,” Jack mutters. “You’re grounded.”

“ _ Jaaaaaaaack. _ ”

Connor smothers a laugh and for a moment, he and Jack exchange a commiserating look over Lottie’s head before Jack sobers and stumbles to his feet. “I still have work to do,” he announces to the room at large. “Lottie, rest your voice, I mean it. And, uh. I’ll see you tomorrow, Connor.” He’s out the door before either of them can say anything.

“I swear, he’s like a cat that way,” Lottie huffs.

“He’s always been that way.” And...melancholy. That’s the word for it. Like he’s pining. Connor fucking McDavid is  _ pining  _ for Jack Eichel.

The question is, what does she  _ do _ with that information?

* * *

 

“To be totally clear, I think you’re an idiot for trying to ambush Jack about feelings but I admire your willingness to jump on the grenade for everyone,” Dylan overhears Charlie tell Diego. He lingers in the doorway of Jack’s preferred recording room, bemused.

Charlie’s idly comparing two almost empty bottles of nail polish to see which has enough for both of her hands, blatantly disregarding all of Jack’s various lectures about how just because he has a couch or two along the back wall does not mean they get to treat his places in Lyme like a living room. Diego doesn’t say anything, leg bouncing nervously as he stares into the empty booth. Lottie is in Jack’s chair, fingers steepled together like she thinks she’s a Bond villain, but the effect’s ruined by the dreamy look in her eyes. Probably daydreaming. Ryder is in the corner, frowning down at a blank sheet of music, because Jack wants him to try his hand at more composing.

“What the-” Jack says from behind Dylan. “Charlie how many fucking times-” he snaps, glaring at the nail polish bottles in Charlie’s hand. He stops himself and sighs, giving Dylan a gentle shove so that those behind him can trickle in. “Get rid of it. Please.”

“On it.” Charlie, of course, picks the trash can across the room that’s next to Connor and ignores the one that was literally less than two feet from the couch. Dylan muffles a snicker at how obvious she’s being, not to mention the rest of her bandmates. Luckily, Connor only looks mildly perturbed, probably chalking it up to being starstruck. Dylan knows better - at least when it comes to Diego, where it’s more like,  _ we’re ready to jump you for everything you’ve done to Jack. _

“Okay, unless you guys decided on extra background vocals without telling me, about the half the people in here need to leave,” Jack begins, then sighs when the kids just stay still, like toddlers who think if they don’t move they can pretend that they aren’t the ones being talked to. “Seriously guys, fire hazard, max capacity, all that. Go.”

Connor cracks a smile, even though Charlie’s still right next to him, eyeing him up and down like she can’t decide if she wants to punch him or ask for a selfie. Dylan knows that Connor has a similar relationship with the younger artists at his label, fond and exasperated and so, so proud of their accomplishments.

Even (especially) when they’re being little shits.

“Oh c’mon old man, what happened to observing professionals and learning something?’ Charlie asks, finally turning her attention to Jack. Dylan winces in sympathy as Jack freezes, caught. Because Jack had been the one to push Sanaa and Charlie together, and Charlie’s been sitting in on as many Ezekiel’s Exile sessions as she could ever since. Clearly, Jack hoped album prep would keep the Ellsworth kids too busy to linger, but he’s definitely underestimated their desire to watch the carnage in person.

Not that there will be any carnage, if Dylan has a say in the matter. The pre-recording meetings have gone off without a hitch, with Jack retreating behind cool professionalism, and Connor...well, Dylan still has yet to figure out what the hell is going on in Connor’s head.

Whatever it is, Dylan’s wary - warier than he was during the All-Star weekend. Because Connor’s been  _ looking  _ at Jack and Dylan’s been there, done that, gotten the crappy t-shirt.

Damn. Mitch’s dramatics are getting to him.

“It hasn’t seemed to help you yet,” Jack snarks.

“Your presence clearly negated all of the professionalism in the room,” Charlie retorts, flipping her hair aggressively enough that it smacks Connor in the face, before leveling Jack with a  _ look _ . Clearly, it’s going to take divine intervention to get her to ditch this session. That still leaves the rest of Ellsworth.

“And the rest of you?” Jack asks, perhaps a little desperately. Dylan would feel bad, he really would, but Jack’s so soft with these kids. It’s hilarious.

“Shalu threatened to confiscate our phones if we didn’t stop tweeting out spoilers and find something productive to do,” Lottie confesses. She’s still in timeout for the photo and the “mystery guest” she teased fans about on Instagram a few days ago, and Shalu isn’t the only one who chewed her out about respecting other artists and not blabbing behind their back (or at least getting permission to blab). 

“Shalu’s threats haven’t stopped you before,” Dylan drawls, finally deciding to step in. He catches Jack’s grateful look and nods slightly, knowing that Jack doesn’t want the kids to see how off-kilter he is around Connor.

“We didn’t think she’d actually follow through before.” Hell, now Ryder is getting in on this betrayal, because if even Ryder is insisting on staying when Jack clearly wants them gone there is no hope of getting them to actually go. 

“If it’s fine with everyone else, I don’t mind them staying,” Connor remarks, putting the final nail in the coffin. Dylan peers at his best friend, wondering if part of him is enjoying this, poking the bear and giving credence to the rumor that Jack is an unreasonable diva who can’t stand not being the biggest star in the room.

But that’s not Connor. Dumb, stubborn, capable of holding a grudge, but vindictive? Never.

“It wouldn’t feel right without our inhouse critic sitting in.” Sanaa smiles at Charlie to soften her words, because she’s really more of a hybrid cheerleader-critic. That’s enough to settle the matter and the room springs to life for a few moments. 

Liam clambers up from where he’d been stretched on the second couch, letting the conversation flow over him as he ambles into the booth. Connor and Sanaa take the couch Liam vacated, as Charlie joins Diego on the other couch. After a raised eyebrow at Lottie still being in his chair, Jack takes a seat as she goes to the couch to squish Diego into a Charlotte Sandwich. Dylan leans against the table that Ryder is seated at, giving him a good view of Connor watching Jack, who instantly relaxes into producer/engineer mode.

Connor’s fascinated, he can tell. He hasn’t been in the same recording studio as Jack since their time in Major and in those days there had been at least two other people watching over the process if one of them was at the board. But that was years ago. They’ve proven themselves now and no one would dream of sending in a more experienced producer to “mentor” them. The responsibility suits Jack, Dylan stands by that. He hates that circumstances have mostly stopped him from really making his own music, but in the meantime he’s turned into one hell of a producer, teaching himself audio engineering, mixing, and mastering along the way.

“Babe, try not to do that pitch-finding hum thing, it’s coming in at the beginning of the chorus.” Connor flinches slightly and Dylan can’t help it - he raises an eyebrow. Jack calls everyone babe when he’s focused. Hell, he’d even called Monroe babe once, failing to realize that he’d even come to round up Major for a meeting with the director for the video for the single off of their first album. Their twin looks of horror are still vivid in Dylan’s mind. So, calling Liam - or anyone, for that matter - babe just isn’t a big deal, but he can’t help the sneaking suspicion that Connor’s jealous.

What the hell?

Liam waves a hand from inside the booth, chagrined. “Sorry Jack, I do this every time, don’t I?”

Jack just shrugs. “You always correct it when we point it out. And then you’re always in tune, so it’s not that bad. Let’s go again.”

Liam eventually swaps out for Sanaa, and recording continues on. 

If Connor thinks he’s fooling anyone, he’s an idiot. Dylan doesn’t groan but he desperately wants to when he sees the Charlottes taking in the soft smile, the warmth in Connor’s eyes as he watches Jack. Diego, he knows, has had an inkling of what Connor feels since All Star Weekend that he’d likely shared with his band members, and this is just going to get added to the mountain of evidence. Dylan hopes Shalu actually has taken their phones. It’s already a miracle that no one has suggested Connor as the mystery guest on that damn post of Lottie’s.

If one of the kids posted a video of Jack and Connor at work it would be enough to bring out the army of fans and reawaken their frightening dedication to uncovering potential relationships between their favorites. That level of scrutiny again would be enough to get Jack to run away forever, and Dylan isn’t sure he or Mitch would be able to get Jack to come back. The East/West divide after Connor left and the breach of contract lawsuit was settled was bad enough. Something like this would probably prompt Jack to leave the Western hemisphere altogether, fleeing right into the arms of some K-pop group.

He’s not going to let that happen.

Dylan catches Connor’s eye as he swaps with Sanaa, trying his best to convey every  _ don’t go there  _ sentiment he has. Connor just shrugs, his lips pressing into a thin line, a stubborn set to his shoulders. Hell. Dylan should have known. Jack’s presence has always been a siren song to him, irresistible and pulling him closer and closer to disaster.

Dammit. He knows Connor was the best choice, the  _ only  _ choice for this song, but he’s not sure if the fallout’s worth it. If the tables were turned and it were him and Mitch, though? He can’t say they wouldn’t be in the same situation, except with more passive-aggressive tweets and Instagram comments. They’re petty that way.

No, they got their shit together pretty quickly after Dylan wrote “When Did Your Heart Go Missing” for their third album, and honestly? He never would have gotten through the drama of Major’s disbandment without Mitch.

“Stromer. What the hell is that?”

He blinks down at the cowbell in his hands. The cowbell from Jack’s desk. Dylan may or may not have a tendency to just take things when he’s distracted. Some of the things he’s walked off with include a brass incense holder, a wishbone, Sanaa’s egg timer, and, most memorably, a Billboard Music Award. “For the song, of course,” he replies baldly.

“How many times do I have to tell you, just because we can have 250 tracks of cowbells doesn’t mean we  _ should _ ,” Jack barks into the intercom. Then, “There isn’t even any cowbell in this song, put the goddamn thing away before I send Diego after you.”

“ _ Excuse me _ ,” Dylan begins, offended. Diego is skinny, what the hell. “That’s not a threat, use Sanaa instead.”

Diego sticks his tongue out and Dylan makes a rude gesture in return.

“This is why you don’t self-produce,” Jack bitches to a deeply amused Sanaa, while the rest Ellsworth kids are failing to hold back giggles. “Stromer would insist on cowbells in every song.”

“I’m going to find a song where it works, just wait and see!” he yells. Outside, Jack looks at Connor and rolls his eyes in a movement so ingrained and instinctual that he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. To Dylan, it’s deeply familiar. How many times have they shared a moment like this, when he and Mitch were being over the top, or some poor interviewer asked them the same question they’d heard fifty times before? Their fans loved it, more than happy to discuss Jack and Connor’s status as the group’s mom and dad.

Yep, this was a terrible idea. Dylan stares into the void and prays for patience. The void flips him the bird.

Great. No help there.

* * *

 

Ellsworth has filmed music videos with less simmering tension than there was today. It just confirmed for the others what Lottie had seen when Jack and Connor had had a loaded conversation about tea, so now the question is: “Do we Parent Trap them?” she wonders, sprawling over most of Diego and Ryder’s couch.

Diego makes a horrified sound. “What-no! You guys weren’t there at the game, it was like they wanted to kill each other.”

“You said that,” Ryder replies thoughtfully. “But we  _ were  _ there today.” And Jack’s face when Connor sang was...a revelation. It was like he’d swallowed the sun or something. “How could you see that and not think there’s something worth saving?”

“Because I was also there when Connor said he had no conviction and his love was weak,” Diego snaps, and strides over to the bar. Crystal clinks as he pours himself a generous tumbler of whisky. “You should have seen his face  _ then _ .”

“Okay, so Diego’s clearly not in favor-”

He makes a frustrated noise and promptly downs the whisky, immediately pouring himself another one. “No, Lottie. I’m in favor of what Jack wants, all right? If Jack wants to try again with Connor, then fine. But that song? The one he gave to you? That’s not a song hoping for reconciliation. That’s a song that’s begging to move on.”

“First of all, stop being a bad host and pour me a drink. Second of all, that song is indeed a moving on song,” Charlie interjects before Lottie can argue with Diego again. “ _ But _ it’s joining a portfolio filled with enough mixed messages to build a thesis or two around. It seems like what Jack wants changes based on the phases of the moon and how recently we’ve dragged him outside. We’re not getting involved in this when Jack can’t even seem to decide what he wants.”

“Charlie!” Lottie whines. Between the crossed arms and the pout, it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate her normal backup in work tiffs switching sides. Charlie is starting to regret all of the romcoms she and Lottie had watched on the road, because even for Lottie this dedication to romance is getting a little ridiculous. 

Diego groans under his breath as he pours her a tumbler of whisky, but Charlie has known Diego long enough to recognize the face he’s making just means he’s tired and not actually unhappy.  

“Okay, but for the sake of all of us, can we at least do something about the tension? I’m going to get a stress ulcer just from being in the same room as those two,” Ryder complains. Charlie thinks they’re more likely to wind up with headaches than actual ulcers. Technically, this isn’t their song and they don’t need to be there. Which, Charlie remembers with a wince, was why Jack had tried to give them all the boot today. 

“Something tells me team building exercises aren’t going to help here,” she finally admits. 

Lottie and Diego both snort at that, and then grin at each other for a brief moment before their smiles fade. It’s rare that they have such opposing viewpoints on what to do when it comes to relationships. Normally, they band together as the extroverted, heart-on-sleeve individuals against Ryder and Charlie’s quieter, more cautious duo. 

“Which is why we need to do something better than team building exercises,” Lottie persists. “If we’re this stressed when they’re in the same place for hours at a time, can you imagine how stressed out Jack is?”

“Dirty fucking play Suleimenova,” Diego says. “And if that worries you, just imagine how stressed Jack would be when the gimmicky plan blows up in all our faces. Because it would.”

“Sorry, I was too busy thinking how happy Jack would be when it worked, did you say something?”

Charlie puts her into a headlock (and isn’t that Jack’s influence, right there?). “And what makes you think  _ it  _ \- because you don’t have a plan yet, admit it - would work at all? Do you really want to risk hurting - and I mean  _ really hurting -  _ Jack?”

That makes  _ everyone  _ wince. They never saw Jack’s low point: Ellsworth signed with Lyme two years after Jack, Dylan, and Mitch finally jumped ship from Sewickley. But they’re young and media savvy, and there’s plenty out there to wade through, if you know where to look. Any Major fan worth their salt knows that Jack was practically a non-entity the year after Connor left, despite the success of that third album and the following tour.

The concert DVD had shown a gaunt and hollow-eyed Jack, exhausted from having to sing both his and Connor’s parts because Dylan doesn’t have their range or power, and Mitch is more of a mix between a baritone and a bass. The documentary had waved it off as regular touring stress but even then it was pretty easy to read between the lines.

“But what if it really makes him happy?” Lottie’s voice is so, so small. “Isn’t it worth that risk?” Because while she never, ever wants to see Jack heartbroken like that again, she’s also never seen him truly  _ happy _ .

Charlie opens and closes her mouth a few times, and Diego just shakes his head and knocks back the rest of his whisky. Finally, Ryder raises a hand. “There are arguments for both sides, okay? We should just...sit back and watch. It’s still too early to decide. Can we agree on that?”

“I guess,” Diego grunts, rolling his eyes. Charlie nods.

Lottie rolls her eyes when everyone turns to look at her. “Fine, fine.” But if everyone drags their feet again, she’s the one with the hidden trump card: Jack’s demo of her song.

And she’s not afraid to use it.

* * *

 

“I want to record my part again,” Connor announces from the doorway of Jack’s studio.

Jack doesn’t flinch, but it’s a very close thing. With the way people keep barging in, he’s beginning to think that a lock with keypad entry isn’t such a bad idea. “I thought you were happy with yesterday’s recording,” he remarks carefully, spinning around slowly in his seat.

Connor’s hands are in his pockets, and that’s just - why the hell would he be nervous? That’s always been a quirk of his, to the point where Major’s stylists made sure his pants  _ never  _ had pockets. He’s missing something. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

Yeah, he’s definitely missing something. “You’ve  _ never  _ liked doing multiple retakes of a song, stop lying.” The producers at Sewickley had been of the ‘more is better’ mindset when it came to recording, and Jack won’t deny there are times when it’s effective. He’ll do it himself, if the emotion’s not coming through or if he and the artist are not gelling when it comes to how a song is supposed to go. 

For the most part, there’s something magical about those first, raw recordings. The artist is honest and open in a way that disappears the more takes you do.

“I’m not lying.”

“Sure, Mr. ‘I use my scratch tracks as much as possible,’” Jack scoffs.

_ That  _ gets Connor’s attention. It’s nothing overt, but Jack’s had years to make a study of Connor’s movements, the subtle gestures that give away what he’s thinking. Even this is not so much a gesture but a way that he focuses, like you’re a bug pinned to a board. “How do you know that?”

Shit. Damn it all to hell. As if Jack’s going to admit that he got it from some random interview of Connor’s from who knows when. There lies  _ danger  _ and frankly, Jack would rather throw himself off a cliff than address it. “Stromer mentioned it when he brought up the collaboration.” Not a lie, actually. Dylan had gone through all of Connor’s quirks and particularities, many of which have not changed since Major.

The problem with knowing Connor as well as he does is that it’s a two-way street. Connor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it further. “Huh. Okay. Well, I want to do it again, and asked for booth time. Let’s go.”

This is a mistake.

It’s a giant fucking mistake, from the moment the two of them are alone in the booth and Connor opens his mouth to sing and-

It’s so much easier to tell himself that he can get over Connor when Connor loathes him with the fire of ten thousand suns and doesn’t care who knows it. Case in point, All-Star weekend. The shoving, being slammed into the boards. The playback from interviews, Connor’s dismissive words jabbing into him like a million tiny needles, over and over again: “ _ He’s changed so much I barely recognize him, you know _ ?” The way the light faded in his eyes, leaving them as flat and fathomless, when Jack told him he didn’t regret a thing.

Hell, even the cool professionalism from the beginning of this week made it easy. Jack can deal with Connor looking at him like he’s some regular Joe Schmo producer because that’s all they are to each other now, right?

Wrong.

Or rather, something’s not  _ right  _ because Connor keeps looking at him now, not like he wants him to burn in hell or like literally anyone else could be sitting in his seat and it wouldn’t matter. This time, Connor sees him, in a way he hasn’t seen him before. The feeling’s intense and visceral, like his body ignites every time Connor’s gaze lands on him. Seems that no matter what he does, he’s always going to burn for Connor. One way or another.

The singing is a special brand of torture. Early on in their Major days, an interviewer asked him what he thought of Connor’s voice. He’d said something along the lines of a gaggle of geese, honks and flaps and all. Better than the alternative, gushing about how it’s like a choir of fucking angels, complete with harps and strategically placed beams of sunlight.

Jack fell for Connor’s voice before he fell for the rest of him. 

And here he is, still falling.

How is he supposed to move on, he wonders bleakly, when his heart doesn’t seem to want to let go? Can’t that stupid organ just realize that he’ll always love Connor, and just... _ be _ ? He doesn’t want to pine away, he has shit to do. A life to live.

A life that currently involves, you know,  _ producing  _ and Jack snaps to just as the track finishes.

“How was that?” Connor inquires, his voice bright, expectant. Like Jack’s opinion actually matters to him somehow and that’s  _ wrong wrong wrong.  _ Jack’s opinion ceased to matter years ago and the realization still leaves a bitter tang in his mouth.

He would feel bad about zoning out for half the take if it weren’t for the fact that yesterday’s take was about as perfect as it could get. There was a soft, delicate quality to Connor’s voice that came out with Dylan’s song, something that tends to get lost with his reputation as a power vocalist.

It’s why Jack told Dylan to ask Connor in the first place. It suits his reticence and the depth of emotion he hides beneath it, no less powerful than anything that comes out of his ballads. Jack used to write those kind of songs for Connor to sing, had a notebook full of them. He’s still writing them, only instead of giving them to Connor they go out to someone who he thinks can do them justice. If they go out at all.

His eyes sting and Jack blinks furiously. No, he won’t break again. “Fine.” More than fine and that’s what sucks. “But yesterday’s was better and we both know it.” He pushes to his feet, the chair scraping noisily against the floor. All of his energy is going into speeding up a recovery process he thought he’d have months, maybe even years to muddle through, and his patience is thinner than usual. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at here, and frankly I don’t want to know. But I have to get back to my other work.”

If Jack books it out of there before Connor can reply, it’s not cowardice. It’s self-preservation.

* * *

 

Jack lied to him. Again. Connor’s chest feels painfully tight, worse than the one time he ran a half-marathon. Jack lied to him, twice. First at the All-Star Game, because no matter what Jack said, Connor knows he wasn’t telling the entire truth about their breakup. He might not regret how they ended but there’s something he wishes he could change. And again today about how he knew Connor made every effort to use his scratch tracks. Dylan never remembered that shit, too caught up in all of Mitch’s quirks while they were recording. So, Jack knew that from somewhere or someone else, and he lied about it. The Jack Connor knows - knew? Knows, he decides as he throws open the door to his hotel suite. He still knows Jack, and he’s not someone who lies. He’ll be blunt to the point of causing hard feelings, but he doesn’t lie. 

Connor doesn’t know what to think, and it’s not like he has anyone he can really ask to help him sort out his thoughts. Mitch and Dylan, who have remained close since the breakup, have made it clear that they won’t talk about Jack with him. Matt, on the rare occasions Connor had seen him, has always been pleasant, steering the conversation so adroitly that the only way Connor can get him to talk about Jack is if he really pushes. Like at the All-Star game.

He stews over it: the lies, his own mixed up feelings, the way Jack had looked at him so briefly during the first session (like he and Connor were on a team again) while he orders food and stalks around the room. He has the penthouse suite to himself and still he feels trapped inside, skin tight and heart jumpy. He toys with calling Cam, because his brother was there for the messy fall out of Connor’s first serious heartbreak, but Cam is in Lisbon with Sarah and could potentially be proposing right now. Connor wishes he hadn’t been so proud before he left New York. A couple people he’s close with at his imprint had offered to come with, to write for his next album, to scout people for features on the songs they’ve got locked down, to keep him from going crazy being so close to Jack (though only Taylor had been fearless enough to say it that directly). 

Connor misses his studio family, he admits to himself as he attacks the excessive amount of food he’d ordered from a place that Charlie had been raving about earlier. It hits him as he thinks about the brief conversations he’s had with each member of Ellsworth: he could ask Jack’s studio family about Jack. Not Diego, Connor decides with a shudder at the memory of his reception after the All-Star game, and probably not Charlie either - anyone who could stare down Jack and get what they wanted was not someone who Connor could pump for info. So, his options are Ryder or Lottie. Ryder seemed a little starstruck earlier, but Lottie was the one who’d seen Jack with Connor. And if the teasing over the past few days was any indication, she’s the most romantic of the Ellsworth kids. Hopefully it will be enough to get her to open up to him, even with the ferocious loyalty to Jack all of the kids have. 

He doesn’t have her number, but he’d seen her instagram when she took the picture of their mugs. He’ll send a DM, invite her to eat some of this mountain of food, and see what Jack is (or isn’t, knowing him) saying about Connor. 

A couple of minutes later, he has his answer. His heart sinks at the almost cheery,  _ Sorry Connor, no can do. The rest of the guys would be suspicious and I promised I wouldn’t interfere. _

But another message appears before he can respond. A Dropbox link.

_ I said I wouldn’t interfere  _ that _ much ;) Happy listening. _

His hand shakes a little bit as he taps the link.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Thought we'd get some other perspectives on this train wreck. :'D  
> -The line about cow bells was actually taken from the Imagine Dragons' episode of the podcast "Required Listening." I highly recommend it!
> 
> * Somewhere on the far side of LA, Mitch is happy. Mainly because he's the only one not onboard said train.  
> * Name that Kpop group and win my love and devotion. Act fast before it's all gone.  
> * This chapter includes both my favorite line and my favorite OC. 
> 
>  
> 
> Songs #13-16 on the [Playlist of Angst™](https://8tracks.com/eich-like/an-open-book-with-nothing-left-between-the-lines) correspond to this chapter.


	5. Monophony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monophony: melody without accompaniment, unison.

The song leaves Connor reeling. No one in the industry has heard Jack sing since Major’s fourth album, which was released with Lyme. Everyone just assumed that that was it for his career, that he was stuck churning out songs and mixing tracks while Dylan experimented with Ezekiel’s Exile and Mitch got his show on iHeartRadio. A waste of talent, they said, and Connor agreed because all bad blood aside, Jack has one of the best voices out there.

It used to drive Connor crazy, actually. Perfect pitch, incredible range, impeccable technique, and to top it off, a unique _color_ that he’s never been able to adequately describe beyond that. He simply has a way of taking the emotion and amplifying it, dragging the listener along for the ride willing or not.

It’s a gift, one that’s apparently been under wraps at Lyme this entire time, relegated to demos of Jack’s songs.

Here’s the thing about Jack: despite having a smart mouth and a volatile temper, he’s remarkably good at keeping his true emotions tucked away. Some of it is media training, the rest is all Jack. Back him into a corner and his walls come up, hiding his true feelings behind expert misdirection and sarcastic, biting quips that have no trouble hitting their mark every. Fucking. Time.

When Jack sings, though? He can never hide. There’s honesty there, and a vulnerability he never allows anywhere else (except maybe in their most private moments but Connor’s not going to think about that now). If you want to know what Jack’s really thinking, you find the right song and you _listen._

Connor has a sinking feeling that he hasn’t listened in a very, very long time.

There is no way he can walk away, not yet. Not until he knows exactly where they stand. It was part of the reason why he said yes to collaborating with Dylan, and it had taken everything in him not to fly out to LA then and there.

The past few days at Lyme have been torture. They’ve been a revelation. Here, it’s clear that the years haven’t diminished Jack at all. Instead, he’s grown and prospered, but quietly and in his own way. Adored by his juniors, respected by his colleagues, and given full rein by the studio executives to wield his genius.

Connor slips the headphones from his ears. If he had any doubt about Jack’s ability to rip his heart out, serve it back to him on a platter and be thanked for it, well. The pile of tissues next to him speak volumes.

So does the song.

_Hang my head, break my heart_

_Built from all I have torn apart_

_And my burden to bear is_

_A love I can’t carry anymore_

Self-righteous anger and spite have been Connor’s constant companions these last few years. The spark of them have fueled him and strengthened him enough to keep the heartbreak at bay. The only problem is that he’s never been able to hold a grudge, and that spark has long since died. He could try to blame that for the way Jack’s been able to slip under his skin but the truth is that Jack’s been under his skin from the moment Mitch dragged him into Dylan’s garage, introducing him as, “the friend from Boston I met at the Maroon 5 concert, guys he’s great he should be in the band too.”

He’s tried so hard to exorcise every trace of Jack from his life since the breakup, but all he has to do is look at his own songs to know that such a thing is impossible. And judging by Jack’s songs, it’s exactly the same for him.

* * *

 

Connor goes back to Jack’s studio the next day because he is nothing if not determined. He and Jack need to talk, and he’s already let Jack slip away from this conversation twice. Connor refuses to let there be a third time.

He’s not expecting the women in Jack’s studio, door open and conversation spilling out.

“And like, I would appreciate it if everyone back home would stop tiptoeing around me. My sister left the label years ago, I didn’t, let’s all just move the fuck on and get our work done. But no,” the woman Connor can hear but can’t see from his spot in the hall drawls out. “No, everyone has to stare at me and whisper more than usual.”

“Which is why everyone signed off on you finishing this album here, instead of staying in Seoul.” That’s Jack, grumpy but fond. Clearly, this is not a new complaint.

“So where are _you_ going, since you’re also getting the whispers and stares?” A second woman, sounding tired but concerned.

“I’m not going anywhere. He’s leaving soon enough. I’ll make it until then.” Connor swears his heart clenches when Jack alludes to him. He sounds exhausted, Connor realizes with a sick twist of his stomach, and he’s only letting his guard down because Connor isn’t there. Instead, Jack’s surrounded by people who he trusts and can lean on. Connor doesn’t know who the women in Jack’s studio are, but he’s hit by a wave of bitter jealousy that they’re people Jack opens up to when he can barely look Connor in the eye.

A spate of rapid-fire Korean follows, and the second woman laughs. “Luna and Victoria don’t appreciate being left out of the conversation.”

“Okay, okay, work first, all right? I reserved a room at a good barbecue place, you can have all the soju and gossip you want after we lay this down.”

A chorus of coos float out the door. “Such a good _dongsaeng,_ taking care of us like that _._ Let’s get to work then!”

“Davo.”

Connor doesn’t jump, but it’s a close thing. Dylan’s standing behind him, arms crossed. “Jeez, Dyls, you scared me.”

Dylan just rolls his eyes, grabs Connor’s elbow, and tows him down the hallway to the lounge as the door to Jack’s studio shuts. Well. At least they didn’t catch him eavesdropping. “What the heck are you doing here?” he asks, not unkindly. “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight?”

“I...I wanted to talk to Jack first.” He watches Dylan’s expression tighten and wonders why that’s so wrong. “What?”

“No. Just...no, Davo.”

Connor digs in his heels. “Why the hell not?” he demands. “I’ve seen-”

“Seen what? The wreckage you left behind?”

That’s definitely unkind, and the sheer betrayal of it is a slap to the face. “Dyls, what the hell?”

Someone clears their throat in the doorway. Connor and Dylan spin around, but it’s only Mitch. “You guys might want to keep it down if you won’t want eavesdroppers, you know,” he says casually, closing the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

Dylan just shakes his head, and for the first time Connor realizes how tired he looks, the darkness under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. “I’m sorry Davo, but what did you think was going to happen? I don’t know what the hell is going on between you two but what I do know is that Jack’s suffering and we’re not going through that again.” He raises a finger as Connor opens his mouth. “Not unless Jack gives the green light, and from what you and I just heard, that’s not happening. Not yet, not soon.”

This is so _frustrating._ For the first time in years Connor feels like he’s moving somewhere, only for the past to drag him back. “But I heard Lottie’s song, that sure as hell means something.” It has to. He can’t bear to think that he’s too late, that everything Jack’s ever felt for him is simply gone.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I should have known she’d meddle.” Dylan runs a hand through his hair, breathes in and out like he’s trying to rein himself in. “Davo. Connor. You’re my best friend and nothing’s ever going to change that, okay? But Jack wrote that song right after All-Star weekend. He fucking locked himself in his studio for almost a full day and Matty was this close to breaking down the damn door. Jack’s only been like that once before, _once_ , and like hell if we’re going to let everything repeat itself because you’re jumping the gun _again._ ”

Anything Connor has to say in his defense dies a quiet death at that. He glances over at Mitch, who lifts one shoulder up and then down in silent agreement. Something hot and uncomfortable pricks beneath his skin. Guilt, he realizes. And shame. Dylan and Mitch have never pointed fingers about Major’s breakup, but right now it’s pretty clear where they stand.

Finally, Mitch speaks up. “You’ve seen how good Jack is with producing and stuff, right Davo?”

“Of course.” He was there when Jack first started, learning the ropes when Major was still together. He’s fully settled into that role now, competent and sure in a way that completely belies the rumors that he isn’t doing anything of note anymore. Not that he’s ever believed them, though in his darkest, most bitter moments he’s certainly wanted to. “He’s amazing.” The fact that he has a Korean group from one of the Big Three sitting in his studio right now is a testament to that.

“He almost didn’t have that.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, serious in a way he so rarely is. So when he is, people pay attention. “Sewickley could have blacklisted him. They threatened to, actually.”

“He ended up blacklisting himself anyway,” Dylan mutters darkly. And that’s true, Jack’s so low-key about his involvement in other people’s work that finding credit is like digging for buried treasure.

“Why?”

Mitch snorts. “Why do you think?”

Connor can’t even argue, because it can only be about him and dammit, they’re _right_. “Fuck. I fucked up,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and slumping against the wall.

“You did,” Dylan agrees. “And that’s why you have to let it go for now.”

“How can I?” he asks, bewildered. “I have to make it up to him-”

“You don’t have to do anything. Let it be, Connor. Go back to New York, let things settle. Let Jack call the shots here and honestly? That’s not a suggestion.”

Connor wants nothing more than to push, because sometimes that’s all he knows to do. He’s never been one to sit back and just wait for the things he wanted but...Dylan’s not moving and he has to concede. For now.

So he lets Dylan drive him back to the hotel to grab his stuff, and take him to the airport. But there, in the first class lounge, he can’t help but think. And plan.

Honestly, Connor has never been good at letting things go, at not waking sleeping dogs. It’s not in his nature, and he refuses to think of that tendency to poke and push and prod as some sort of defect. Jack wanted him to leave, and he is, but Connor is going to stack the fucking deck and do everything he can to show Jack that he knows what he’s done and that he’s willing to work to set things right. Which means find some way to show Jack how serious Connor is. Connor’s words are barely worth the breath it takes to say them after everything that’s happened, so he’s left to the gestures he’d mocked when Jack and Mitch made him watch romantic comedies.

Except roses or a love song aren’t going to cut it. He’s the one flying back to New York, which makes it impossible to do the dramatic airport run, catching Jack before boarding and begging him not to go. Even if any of that was an option, Connor knows it wouldn’t be enough. Jack needs something permanent, stable. Some sort of undeniable proof that Connor had been an idiot and that Jack had been the brave one, hatching the plan that would’ve let them hang onto each and their careers, if Connor hadn’t been so fucking impatient. Connor wishes he could give Jack every award, every album and tour he’s done since then. Because even as they waded out of the mess that was the breach of contract lawsuit and somehow not been outed, Jack had not only inspired every song- he’d been the reason Connor still had a career.

It hits him then that while he can’t give Jack his awards and albums, he can give him something that means a hell of a lot more. If their break up had been spurred on by Connor’s lack of trust and impatience with Jack, then there’s a sort of symmetry to giving Major back into Jack’s care. It’s taken him this long to realize it, that everything Jack did back then was for Major, for _them_ and he just...never said a word when Connor walked away.

God. He was so selfish. He wanted everything, he wanted the world, and he wanted it _now_ and never thought of the consequences. Never thought to tend to their future and ended up throwing it all away.

Weak. He’d dared to call Jack’s love weak when his was the strongest all along. Why else would he have made the choices he did, even allowing his precious plans to crumble to dust alongside his career, all so that Connor and the others could thrive? It took so much love, sacrifice, and devotion, when Connor only saw cowardice.

Jack took that road, honestly believing that it was best for everyone. He took the criticism and blame without question. And Connor just _let_ him. No, Jack’s love was never weak. Connor was the weak one, the resentful one, too blind when it came to everything Jack was trying to do for them.

Well. He’s going to make up for it now. It’s a little ridiculous and it’s going to be a pain in the ass to pull off, but Connor can’t think of anything more fitting. He pulls out his phone. “Hey, Ryan? Yeah, I’m fine, I just have a favor to ask? Please?” He pauses. “Remember when you brought up Major’s rights? Yes, I know I said I wasn’t interested. I’m interested now.”

* * *

 

Jack doesn’t miss Connor. It’s ridiculous. He’s gone literal, actual years without Connor around, so his absence after the song was finished should not be a _thing_ . It is though, and Jack isn’t having much luck ignoring it. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on Jack’s mood that day) the usual people who can pull him out of a funk are busy. Dylan is caught up in the promo run up to releasing the single as an album preview, Mitch and Lottie are bickering daily on his show, and when Lottie isn’t defending _The Sandlot_ ’s place as a hallmark of American cinema, she and the other Ellsworth kids are caught up in all of the pre-album and pre-tour prep that Akira and Shalu are insisting have to be done right now, guys, we aren’t joking, get off of Twitter and get into this meeting _now_.

Jack isn’t sulking, because he is a grown adult who understands that he can’t demand people’s time and attention 24/7. But he’s letting himself get sucked into helping out around Lyme more since Amber and the others are gone and he can’t focus long enough to get more than a line or two scratched out at a time. As for all of his previous projects, well, they’re in the books.

Actually, they’re on the charts. Jack writes damn well when he’s emotionally devastated, and everyone seems to love a good heartbreaker right before Valentine’s day and the subsequent opening volley of hits of the summer. So really, it’s not a big deal to help out, but it doesn’t really give him anything consuming enough to linger. He’s been leaving at decent hours for a week now. Back to his house, where Connor has never been but still feels empty without him.  

“Jack! Hold on a sec, I’ve got stuff for you in the office,” Gia calls out on a Tuesday that Jack has spent helping Zach test some speciality equipment to see if it’s still in good shape. Jack sighs but follows Gia back to the main office, jangling his keys restlessly as he waits for her to pull together what appears to be a massive amount of fanmail. He nods at Odera and tries not to wince when he sees a comically large mug filled with black coffee and a maroon file in her hands - apparently, someone has decided to be an idiot abroad and needs Odera to coordinate their release.

Jack’s never been in that position, helped by the fact he doesn’t tour ( _because he doesn’t release his music, because apparently all of his talent left when Connor did,_ whispers a nasty voice in his head) but he’s been with Lyme long enough to recognize that it takes a major fuck up to get one of the best lawyers in the business pissed. And that mug? It’s the surest sign anyone will get that Odera’s pissed.

Gia startles him out of his musings over which young hothead fucked up with a cheerful “That’s the last of it! Security checked everything, like usual. Nothing big, unless you count twelve people claiming you’re the only one who understands them and their broken hearts, and offering undying devotion. Oh, and a handful of actual work things - honestly, I’m surprised we don’t see more of that since _someone_ likes to pretend he doesn’t have an email.”  

“But how would I know someone is serious about working with me if they aren’t willing to go to the effort of finding stamps to mail an email they printed out to me?” Admittedly this little test of Jack’s has not helped with his diva reputation. He refuses to give it up though, loves to see if people are committed to actually working with him or just want to tap into his notoriety all these years later.

Gia’s assessment is right. It’s letter after letter, some gushing, far fewer bluntly honest and all the more impactful for it, but for the most part this has been the norm since Jack was 17 years old and Major took off. What’s not the norm is the stuffed legal size envelope at the bottom of the pile. He recognizes the names on the embossed letterhead and has a brief moment to wonder what the fuck New York City’s premier law firm wants with him.

A meeting, as it turns out. To be arranged at his leisure, as there are asset transfers and paperwork that he needs to sign off on.

“What the actual everloving fuck?”

Matt has exactly the same reaction when he tracks him down. “Is this something you need to be concerned about?” he asks, peering at the document doubtfully.

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Jack huffs. “I probably need to get Sonny on the phone, don’t I?”

He not only gets Sonny on the phone, but Sonny comes with him to New York City, where they’re both grumpy as they try to make it out of the airport in the midst of a late storm. Jack has been in the city for ten minutes before he regrets coming. He keeps jumping at shadows and hearing someone call his name.

There’s only a minor bit of relief as they jump into a cab, and Jack starts streaming Mitch’s show. It’s a little bit of familiarity in this screwed up situation, but even Mitch, it seems, is intent on throwing a spanner in the works,

“- _all right, all you Ezekiel’s Exile fans, I know you’ve been on tenterhooks with all the sneaky little teasers Dylan’s been releasing.”_ He chuckles. “ _He’s always been a bit of a *bleep* that way - oh, see, my producer’s shaking their head at me but come on, when am I not swearing? Anyway, back to the subject. Right here, right now, I have your first taste of Ezekiel’s Exile’s first single off their upcoming album, and it’s a hell of single. Major fans, rejoice, because none other than Connor McDavid is featured, and the entire thing was produced by Jack. Jack Eichel, that is. Oh, and Dylan and I wrote the song. Try not to have a heart attack, all right? Here is, ‘Hold Your Head Up High.’”_

Sonny glances up from his phone. “Your fans are definitely going to lose their shit,” he observes.

“You mean Connor’s fans.”

“No, I mean _Major’s_ fans. All four of you working on a single song for the first time in how many years? That’s huge. I’m your lawyer, not your manager, but even I know that’s going to get you a lot of attention and offers.”

“As my lawyer, I was under the impression you weren’t going to lie to me,” Jack snips. He has nightmares about more scrutiny, about how obvious he was in interviews and in lyrics. There are days when Jack thinks that the only reason fans don’t know that his lack of courage is why Major broke up is because no one has thought about him in years. Fans move on, find new things to love and hyperanalyze. There’s plenty of time for that to happen to the subset of Major fans that loved him best.

Jack’s phone starts vibrating and Sonny smirks. “How is any of that a lie? Those are your social media notifications, aren’t they?”

Sure enough, Twitter is going _nuts._ He sighs and mutes the notifications, and none too soon, because their cab pulls up at their stop. “Whatever. Let’s see what the hell these people want.”

Three hours later, he’s stepping out into the same dreary weather, the raindrops blessedly cool on his face.

He’s the exclusive owner of all of Major’s rights.

And it’s all because of Connor.

Once the lawyers convinced him that _No, Mr. Eichel, we’re not screwing with you,_ and explained the asset transfer process as well as his rights as the new copyright holder, they handed over an envelope with a single sheet of paper inside. He knew that looping scrawl right away.

_Jack. You were the one safeguarding everything we were working towards, and our future together. I was too blind to see it. The only way I can think of making it up to you is by giving you this, the ability to protect everything we built. Everything I threw away._

_I’m sorry._

His emotions are sitting too heavy in his chest, pushing all the air out of his lungs and dammit, he thought he was over that whole not breathing thing. Trust Connor to screw it all up again. He has half a mind to storm over to Connor’s studio and-

And what?

He wants an explanation. He wants to know why Connor spent this godawful amount of money (there’s a reason why he was planning on splitting this with Dylan and Mitch) only to turn it around and just...give it to him. If he’s really sorry. If he really means it.

If _everything I threw away_ means more than just Major.

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the sudden flutter of hope in his chest, doesn’t want to give it life if he’s reading this wrong because of everything he felt - everything he _still_ feels for Connor McDavid. Even after all this time.

His phone vibrates in his hand. Dylan.

“Did you know about this?” he barks into the phone. Okay, he’s a little frazzled. He’s allowed.

“Know about what? Mitch releasing the song teaser on his show? Of course I did, and you did too Eichs, you were there.” He heaves an overdramatic sigh. “I know you hate flying, but blacking out an entire meeting is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Jack can barely focus. The horns are too loud, the press of people enough to get lost in. “No, Stromer, that’s not what I mean. I meant Connor. Buying Major’s rights and giving them to _me._ ”

Dead silence on the other end. “I’m sorry, what?” Dylan finally asks. “Did you just say that Davo bought Major’s rights and gave them to you? I didn’t actually hallucinate that?”

“You’re not alone, I thought the last few hours were a hallucination. I’m guessing this means you didn’t know.”

“Of course I didn’t! The three of us were supposed to go in on the rights together.” He laughs, short and disbelieving. “I told Davo to back off before he flew back, to give you some time. I didn’t tell him to pull some full on Grand Gesture. Why is he like this.” Knowing Dylan, he’s probably pulling at his hair right now.

What. “What.”

“I told him to back off until you figured out what you want, not to launch a fucking full-scale wooing mission.”

And that just...no. Jack can’t process that even a little bit. “Why the fuck would he want to woo me.”

“Nope. Not getting involved. You want to know, you two need to fucking talk.”

That’s fair. That’s more than fair. Dylan and Mitch don’t deserve to get dragged into their mess _again_. They’ve done enough the last few weeks, and shouldn’t have had to drag his sorry ass out of the fire every time he loses his mind over Connor.

“Fuck, you’re going to apologize, aren’t you? Shut up Eichs, it’s what friends do, I mean it...anyway, shit. That’s not why I called.” There’s a pause before he rambles on, not allowing Jack to get a word in edgewise, the asshole. He doesn’t apologize easily. “The response to the song has been really fucking amazing, Eichs. The people at Stand Up to Cancer got in touch with Lyme - they want a Major reunion at this year’s concert.”

“And how is that any different from the past reunion offers?” Jack grits out, his heartbeat thudding oddly in his ears. They’ve had so many offers over the years, from awards show one-offs to full-on reunion tours. Every offer has been firmly turned down, everyone knowing that placing Jack and Connor together for an extended period of time is tantamount to setting the venue on fire. The only reason All Star weekend wasn’t a bigger disaster was because they’d split them up.

Dylan laughs, high and unnatural, and Jack’s stomach sinks even further. “Well, funny you should say that, given what’s just. Uh. Happened to you.”

“Stromer. What the fuck.” In LA, some mom would be giving him a scandalized look, clapping her hands over her children’s ears. Because it’s New York, no one bothers to give him a second look.

“Look, I was going to say don’t read into it, but that was before I found out...what I just found out. Davo texted me and said he’s in on the concert if we are.”

“I can’t even process this shit anymore,” he says tiredly. Ever since the All-Star weekend, it feels like it’s been one thing after another. Head and heart are warring for supremacy now, each with their own opinion and fighting to be heard over the other. He’s joked for years about wanting mute buttons for Dylan and Mitch, but one for himself doesn’t seem like such a bad prospect, either. All he wants right now is room to breathe.

Dylan heaves a sigh. “I don’t blame you, Eichs. Look - you’re coming back tomorrow, right? Check into your hotel, treat yourself to some really good food or something. Hell, go see a show on Broadway. Do anything but stew and just get back here. We’ll talk it all over then.”

Jack shakes his head in grudging admiration. “Not your worst idea Stromer, I applaud you. I might just do that.” If _Legally Blonde_ doesn’t get his mind off this then nothing else will.

The musical takes him out of his head for a few hours, but afterwards it’s like Connor’s gesture dogs his every step, from New York all the way back to LA.

He finds himself in his studio, where the USB drive is waiting. He doesn’t even have to play it in order to hear it, the song taking root and blooming, soft and fragile like hope. He hasn’t dared to hope in a very long time.

Part of him doesn’t want to dare, to dream.

But the other part of him is tired of pushing everything away. Of hurting and breaking. Of merely coping rather than truly living.

He’s lived cautiously, even quietly. Ironic, since he’s never been afraid to take a risk when it truly mattered. He did that when they first put Major together. When he fell in love with Connor. And again, when what was left of Major left Sewickley for Lyme. Does he have the strength to make that leap one more time?

For the chance to be with Connor again - absolutely. No more holding back. No more denying what he’s wanted - what he’s always wanted, besides music.

“Guess you’re going to see the light of day after all,” he murmurs, snatching up the drive.

Time to get to work.

* * *

 

“I still don’t get why you had to have a closed rehearsal,” Mitch grumbles, still sulking. “You’re such a diva sometimes Eichs, oh my god.”

“What part of ‘secret’ don’t you understand, Marns?” Jack drawls, sipping at the pear honey tea Krystal had gotten him into. He nods respectfully at Rihanna as she passes by with her entourage.

“Looking forward to seeing you guys perform, it’s been a while!” she calls.

“Thanks!” they chorus, Dylan’s voice only cracking a little bit. For him, it’s an improvement because when they were still Major, he couldn’t bring himself to even look at her. Not that Jack really blames him: it’s _Rihanna._

Mitch cackles and pokes a finger into his ribs. “Nice, Dyls.”

“Shut up, Mitch.” Dylan sits a little straighter, eyes focused on Jack. “But come on, Eichs. Give us a little hint - are you about to drop some sort of confession to Davo?”

Jack doesn’t quite recoil but it’s close. “Guess you’ll just have to see, won’t you?” he says as nonchalantly as possible.

It doesn’t quite work; Dylan levels him with an assessing, almost knowing look. “Looking forward to it.”

“Looking forward to what?” Connor asks, suddenly looming out of the darkness of the wings.

Jack immediately looks into his tea. He doesn’t quite know how to look at Connor anymore, not with everything said and unsaid between them hanging in the balance.

Jack is up to something. It’s not surprising, Connor will admit, because Jack is always up to something. But to not rope Mitch or Dylan into it? That’s suspicious. It has Connor on edge. Though he’s not sure it counts when he’s been on edge for weeks, since his attorneys stopped silently staring at him over their coffees after he explained what he wanted their advice on. Because Jack went to New York City, got the papers - got Major, and he hasn’t said anything to Connor.

When the rest of them agreed to the concert, Connor thought _maybe,_ but Jack’s as opaque as ever. Perhaps even more so, because during rehearsals he’s just been carefully neutral. Part of it’s the media - apparently more than twenty outlets begged the Stand Up to Cancer people to let them record Major’s rehearsals. But part of it could be that Connor’s just...too late.

He shouldn’t have waited so long. When Major’s contract finally ended at Sewickley, he should have asked them to come to New York. He’d thought about it but in the end decided not to ask, his pride holding him back because he didn’t want to seem weak after how badly they ended. He’d been spiteful because of how much he’d been hurt. The real problem was fear. Fear that Jack would say no and reject them - reject _him_ \- one more time.

Yet here he is, facing possible rejection anyway. For all he knows, Jack’s secret song is basically an orchestral arrangement of “Fuck You.” And he’s probably justified in doing so.

Connor should have been more explicit in the letter. He should have poured his heart out, put everything on the table in words, just like he was doing in actions. But he’d only done what Dylan told him, backing off and not saying what he really meant.

_I’m sorry. I was wrong. Come back to me. I still love you. I’ve always loved you._

At least then, Jack can reject him knowing everything.

“Major? You’re on in five, places please.” The stage manager leads them to their spot just off the wings. Jack and Connor grab guitars, Dylan his bass, and Mitch a harmonica. Connor looks at their faces in the darkness, wondering what each of them are feeling right now. It doesn’t feel strange to him at all, despite the years. They’ve stood like this before countless times and if he closes his eyes, it’s almost like they’re that young band again, flush with success and itching to be out on the stage.

The crowd is deafening when they step onto the stage. Word is that the concert sold out in 30 minutes, largely due to the media buzz around their mini-reunion. Connor would be surprised, but Major’s fans have been one of his only constants over the years. They’re intensely loyal.

“Hello LA! Miss us?” Mitch says into the mic with a shit-eating grin. The crowd roars in response. “We should probably introduce ourselves, eh? I’m Mitch, that’s Dylan, Connor, and Jack-”

“And we’re Major,” they chorus together. A shiver goes down Connor’s spine. Talk about deja vu.

Jack clears his throat. “We’re honored to be here tonight. Really, all the thanks goes out to you guys, since you’re the ones who really pushed for us to be here.”

“All thanks to this one little song, so I got permission from the rest of Ezekiel’s Exile for us to do our own little arrangement here.” Dylan’s grin is so wide it’s amazing his face isn’t cracking in half. “So without further ado, here’s ‘Hold Your Head Up High.’”

Jack helped Dylan with this arrangement, stripping back some of the bigger frills of the studio recording, and translating Sanaa’s violin part to harmonica for Mitch. Their voices rise over the accompaniment, their four-part harmony strong and clear.

They sound really fucking good. Dylan’s work with Ezekiel’s Exile has really strengthened his voice and enhanced his technique - he’s had to, in order to keep up with Sanaa and Liam. Mitch is less restless, more settled in his skin now that he’s found another outlet for his boundless energy. As for Jack and Connor, they’ve had their own reasons to keep their voices in perfect working order.

What it all comes down to is that they’re all older now, more confident and experienced. The green newbies who burst onto the pop scene almost ten years ago are no more. And if some of them are bit more broken than they used to be, well. They know how to take that and make it work onstage.

From there it’s two more songs, the pop anthems from their first and second albums. The audience eats it up, and Connor finds himself more than a little choked up at how loudly the they sing along, word for word, and how enthusiastically they scream when they bust out some very rusty dance moves. They shouldn’t have waited this long, he tells himself as the four of them link hands and bow together. They could have had this again.

But there’s no time to really think, because he and Jack are hustled oft to opposite wings to prep for their solo songs, leaving Mitch and Dylan to sing an arrangement of “When Did Your Heart Go Missing,” a song off their third album that Dylan wrote for Mitch in a fit of pique over the ups and downs of their relationship. It worked though, and the two of them sorted themselves out not long after.

Connor’s prep is minimal, really. He’s all warmed up and his band knows what they’re doing. There’s no way he’s going to miss Jack’s song, and he plants himself in the wings as Mitch and Dylan come offstage, flushed and beaming.

The lights dim, and the first thing he notices is the orchestra.

Well shit. Maybe he was right.

 

His hands won’t stop trembling, Jack notices absently. There’s a last minute flurry around him of people of checking mics and making sure that everyone knows the plan, but it’s all background noise. His hands have never been unsteady before. It’s a strange thing to notice, but it’s better than letting himself think about what he’s about to go out and do. Jack’s always had steady hands - his mom called them surgeon’s hands, the closest she’d come to admitting that she’d hoped one of her kids would follow her into medicine - and Jack doesn’t feel like himself as he watches his hands tremble in his lap. Even in the aftermath of the split, his hands had been steady.

The stakes are higher. Jack’s taking the leap that Connor asked him to take years ago. To be selfish, to choose _them._

That’s the difference. Back then, he’d picked Connor. And he’d pick Connor, always, but he’d picked Connor over himself. He’d suffered for it, his heart breaking over and over again with every song, every time he heard Connor on the radio. His love was like a candle beneath a bucket, hidden away, the light only allowed to escape once in a while.

No more hiding. No more secrets.

His hands stop shaking.

“Mr. Eichel? It’s time.”

The audience is effusive as he walks out, the follow-spot tracking his progress across a stage that’s dark save the god light on the grand piano. The response is overwhelming, for someone who’s supposed to be the forgotten member of Major. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a stage, let alone on my own,” he comments into the mic, settling onto the piano bench. “Thank you for the welcome, and thank you for the opportunity.” The words he’s rehearsed backstage stick in his throat, but the words he says now aren’t important. It’s the _song._ “Let’s just say that this song has been a long time coming.”

It starts with just the piano, the chords soft and ponderous, joined by just the lightest, softest touch of synth, a high, haunting noise in the background.

_If you were here beside me, instead of in New York._

Then the drums, muted but steady, a brush against the snare instead of drumsticks.

The lights come up during the chorus, enough to show the orchestra, drums, and guitar behind him, but just barely. The stage is bathed in dim, golden light, his candle flaring. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees all the cell phone flashlights beaming throughout the arena, waving back and forth. The drums come to life, the rhythm driving and compelling. It’s his heartbeat again, beating strong and steady and true.

It never stopped.

The trumpet joins in the chorus, floating above the piano and drums, the strings an unceasing wave in the background. The rest of the brass comes in, trombone and horn grounding the wail of the trumpet, the hairs rising at the back of his neck as everything comes together.

_I miss it all, from the love to the lightning_

_And the lack of it snaps me in two._

The instruments cut almost abruptly after that statement, a gaping echo in the sound that reverberates throughout the arena.

The music buoys him, every emotion he has made manifest in words and sound. There’s no way he can be any clearer.

_Just give me a sign there’s an end with a beginning_

_To the quiet chaos driving me mad._

Connor can’t breathe. Every word, every note, every beat of the drums peels away every single pretense, excuse, and lie that’s piled up between them. If he’d had any doubt that Jack was the stronger one, this song destroyed it. How can Jack keep singing, keep playing? Just listening to it seems to steal the life right out of Connor. He stares at Jack, unable to do anything else and unwilling to try.

It’s a second chance, of which he’s entirely undeserving. But Connor’s determined: it’s not going to go to waste, and he’s going to do everything in his power to _be_ deserving of this chance.

“Damn.” Dylan’s voice is hoarse, a little watery. On his other side, Mitch blows noisily into a tissue. “Guess you got your answer there, Davo. Don’t fuck it up this time, Lyme can’t afford to have him running off to Seoul or something.”

“I won’t,” Connor croaks. He should look at Dylan, show him how utterly serious he is, but he can’t (won’t) bring himself to look away from Jack, who is bowing in front of an adoring crowd. “Dyls, you know I won’t.”

“Ah, Mr. McDavid, you’re already in place. Good. We couldn’t really practice the transition earlier because of Mr. Eichel’s closed rehearsal, but they’re all leaving stage left. All except the piano, of course, it’s been left center stage for you.” The stage manager looks at him expectantly.

And no. That’s all wrong, Jack needs to exit on _this_ side, so Connor can...well, he honestly hasn’t thought that far ahead. He’s still reeling, torn apart and put back together by Jack and that damned song, vaguely entertaining the idea of just sweeping Jack off his feet.

But there’s still one more song for him to perform, and the anxious look he’s getting from the stage manager means he’d better get a move on. _You’re a goddamn professional, Connor, act like one_. He straightens and smiles, but it probably comes out a little frozen. “Yes, of course. I’ll just...go.”

For the audience’s sake, he hopes he doesn’t look as steamrolled as he feels, but it’s a toss-up. Still, as he waves his hand and is greeted by a wall of sound, he can feel the tension draining away. It’s always been this way, the energy of the crowd buoying him and bringing a sort of clarity he rarely feels outside of the studio.

And suddenly he knows what to do.

“Let’s have another round for Jack, eh?” Connor says, settling onto the piano bench. He looks stage left, doesn’t know if Jack stayed there or went back to find Mitch and Dylan. “That was incredible.” The word sticks in his throat because it was more than that but he doesn’t have a way to express that. At least, not through normal words. “I, um. I was going to sing ‘Turning Tables,” but it doesn’t seem quite right after that. So without further ado, here’s ‘Lay Me Down.’”

Biz is probably going to kill him, but there’s a reason why Connor’s his own boss these days. He can do what he wants, and if that means trotting out a song from his unreleased new album, then he’s going to do it. Especially if it says everything he’s been unable to say.

_No words can explain the way I’m missing you._

Jack’s entire body is vibrating with adrenaline now, a biological function that was once so familiar post-performances. Now it’s been years and Jack has half forgotten the way the enormity of performing for people (even just one) and being emotionally vulnerable hits him the way a check he didn’t see coming used to hit him. Matt shoves a bottle of water into his hands before grabbing Jack’s shoulders and spinning him to face the stage he just left with a whispered hiss of, “Watch this.”

Even with Matt’s hands digging into his shoulders, it takes Jack a few precious seconds to realize what’s going on. Connor’s singing a song Jack doesn’t recognize. His brain catches up, taking in the way the stage managers are checking their tablets frantically as Connor implores, pleads, begs Jack to take him back. There’s a moment where the vicious voice in his head that insists he’s a fool for clinging to his love when Connor has clearly moved on mocks him for having the audacity to think that it’s about him. But Jack has spent too long being rational and considering every option to entertain that idea for more than a second. Connor’s letter, giving Jack Major, and now this song? Connor is wooing Jack. Dylan was fucking right, the shit.

As much as Jack knows he’ll come to love this song, like he’s come to love all of Connor’s other songs, he needs it to end already. They have to talk. He’s desperate for confirmation from Connor himself instead of analyzing his actions through the lens of his own long standing hopes, and the rational part of him is fairly sure that the only reason he hasn’t run onto the stage to drag Connor off is because of Matt’s grip on his shoulders through it all.

He has to know once and for all. They had everything, once. Can they have it again?

_I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight._

The words Connor’s singing onstage make him feel light, lighter than he’s ever felt in a very long time. No ugliness or uncertainty weighing him down, but enough hope to give him wings to fly.

Gods, sometimes he’s too embarrassing, even in his own head. Not that any of that matters, if Connor’s really there on the other side.

Jack barely registers the roar of applause. All he sees is Connor running for him, a question in his eyes, the same painful hope reflected right back at him. Connor skids to a halt, his fingers clenching and unclenching, like it’s taking everything in him to stop from reaching out.

“I meant it,” Jack finds himself saying in a rush. “Every single word.” He feels weightless with the admission, exhilarated to know that finally, _finally,_ the secrets and the feelings he’s hid for so long are out there for everyone to see.

Connor’s breath hitches, his movements jerky as he takes one tiny, hesitant step forward. “Me too,” he confesses, staring at Jack like he’s going to disappear at any moment. “Every word. Every gesture.”

The enormity of what Connor’s done is still almost too much to comprehend. “A really fucking expensive gesture, Davo,” he teases gently, closing that distance just a little more.

He might as well have leaped across the Grand Canyon, the way Connor’s face lights up, his eyes sparking with warmth that Jack hasn’t seen directed towards him in a very, very long time. “I had to,” is the soft reply. “I didn’t understand, then. I _couldn’t_ understand. But now I do. And I thought that - “ he swallows, like the words pain him, but continues on. “Even if your feelings changed, then giving you Major was the least I could do to show that.”

It’s like all of the air comes rushing back into his lungs. Jack could almost laugh because of course. Of course Connor was his room to breathe all along. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Connor,” he growls, fingers fisting in the front of Connor’s shirt and yanking him forward until their bodies are flush against one another. Connor lets out a squeaky little sound, his hands finding purchase on Jack’s hips. “As if my feelings for you have _ever_ changed.”

And then there’s no more room for words. The kiss is sweet in its familiarity, yet breathtaking because he never dreamed he’d have this again. The way Connor shudders as his fingers brush the nape of his neck, the way he chases every movement like he’s greedy for more. He’s always been that way, Jack remembers, and shifts to cup his jaw, the stubble rough beneath his hand. _Slow down,_ he says without words. _We have all the time in the world._

Connor exhales, harsh and desperate, like it’s all too much. His fingers are tangled in the fabric of Jack’s shirt, wrinkling it beyond repair. Jack just smiles, pressing his lips across the line of his cheekbone and up to his temple, soft and intimate despite the fact that an audience of a couple thousand are only feet away.

“I never stopped,” Connor murmurs. “Loving you. I hated you, didn’t understand you...but I never stopped loving you either. You’re it for me, Jack. Always.”

He’s looking up now, a question in his eyes like Jack hasn’t just answered it a thousandfold. But Jack gets it. It’s been years, and they’ve been long, miserable ones full of hurt and anger and bitterness and regret. Moving beyond that is going to take time but Jack believes enough in both of them to know it’s going to be worth it.

“It’s you and me, babe,” he promises. For good this time.

“To the bitter end?” Connor quips, but the light in his eyes is so bright.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just you and me.”

Somewhere behind them, Mitch lets out a giant sob, like he can’t hold it in anymore. “ _About fucking time,”_ he bawls, throwing his arms around both of them, Dylan not far behind.

The rest of the wing erupts in cheers and whistles. The stage manager on this side dabs at her face with a tissue even as she ushers them to the side so that there’s room for the next act. Jack’s only mildly relieved that it’s not Ellsworth, because he doesn’t think he’s ready to face Lottie’s _I-told-you-sos_.

He’s missed this, Jack realizes when Major joins everyone else for the curtain call. Not just Connor ( _god,_ how he’s missed Connor), but everything about this experience. Squinting through the brightness of the stage lights and roasting in the heat of them, sweat beading along his forehead and dripping down his back. Playing the piano until his fingers slip off the keys, strumming the guitar until the strings feel permanently imprinted on his hands, and singing until his voice disappears. And while the roar of the crowd is a high like none other, it’s more about sending his song into the void and knowing that somewhere out there, someone knows exactly how he’s feeling.

A lot of that was lost too, over the years. Jack slips his hand into Connor’s for the bows and thinks, maybe it’s time to take that back, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -WOW IT'S FINISHED. Thanks for indulging our need to throw out all the angst over these two idiots. It's been a wild ride  
> -Creating that Buzzfeed headline was a pain in the ass  
> -I cannot count how many times I've listened to "New York" in order to figure out its composition. I even had to get the CD at the library TT_TT
> 
> * It's been a hell of a journey and I'm so glad that y'all came along for the ride. It's giving me all sorts of warm fuzzies.   
> * I regret ever suggesting we do fake social media for this, but also it was super fun and I like what it added? IDK man, shit's hard.  
> * Genius' youtube channel has an awesome series "the making of" and recently did Red Velvet's Bad Boy-- check it out!  
> * Major was signed to a 360 deal as a group, Jack signed an additional deal on his own to deal with production and skill development.   
> * RoyaltyExchange is a really interesting site to look at to see what buying the rights might've cost Connor  
> * Also everyone go listen to Dessa's new album. Seriously. 
> 
> As you might expect, the last songs of the playlist (#16-19) correspond to this final chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> -This basically happened because Kayla went, "All their prospects stuff tags them as a boy band so...make them a boy band????" And I was like, "Yes but let's have ANGST so Persuasion AU????" Then it just spiraled out of control.  
> -Solo!Connor is basically Adele and Sam Smith mashed together.
> 
> *I sent Jo a handful of lead nuggets of nonsense pieces-- boyband AU jokes, kpop, awful break ups, and a little found family-- and five months later we had an actual fic.  
> *My inspiration for all of this was just top prospects15 content & sicagate speculation.
> 
> We also made a [Playlist of Angst™](https://8tracks.com/eich-like/an-open-book-with-nothing-left-between-the-lines) to accompany the fic. #1-3 correspond to this chapter.


End file.
